LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 

GIFT    OF 

^'■°1 ws 

Class  1^-    ^^  ^ 


1^ 


"  He  Spoi^ij:  to  Me." 


Facing  title  />agc. 


{See  page  143.^ 


EZRA  HARDMAN,  M.A. 

OF    WAYBACK    COLLEGE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

SARA  B.  ROGERS 


OF  TH€ 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

NEW  YORK 

DODGE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

150  Fifth  Avenue 


COPYRIGHT  IN  THE 
YEAR  NINETEEN  HUN- 
DRED BY  THE  DODGE 
PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


Dedicated  to 
MIRIAM. 


Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


306575 


Contents. 


PAGIE 

Ezra  Hardman,  M.  A, 13 

The  Light  of  Circumstance 37 

Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton 53 

The  Giant's  Strength 69 

The  Crime  op  Lois  Baxter 83 

In  Poverty  Row 109 

The  Chevalier  D'Artois 125 

Her  Son 153 

Poison  Flowers 175 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 


13 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSJTY 

OF 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A/ 


HAEDMAN  told  his  wife  that  they 
would  need  at  least  a  week  to  get 
fairly  settled  in  their  new  quar- 
ters at  the  University,  and  Mrs.  Hardman 
regretfully  subtracted  that  amount  of  time 
from  the  days  she  was  so  covetously  hoard- 
ing. When  the  hour  of  their  departure 
actually  arrived,  and  she  had  watched  the 
expressman  take  away  their  few  trunks 
and  boxes,  and  had  tied  the  children's  hats 
securely  under  their  firm,  round  chins,  her 
forced  composure  deserted  her,  and  she 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Hardman  stood  looking  down  at  her  with 
masculine  perplexity.  There  was  no  time  to 
lose,  and  several  of  his  colleagues  w^ere  al- 

*  By  courtesy  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
15 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

ready  waiting  at  the  station  to  bid  Mm  god- 
speed. He  wanted  to  go  away  smiling  and 
to  be  whirled  off  in  triumph  from  the  ad- 
miring and  envious  glances  of  his  friends. 
He  could  not  understand  his  wife's  tears; 
why  should  she  cry  when  they  were  coming 
back  again  after  he  had  obtained  his  de- 
gree of  doctor  of  philosophy?  They  would 
be  absent  for  only  two  years,  and  the  time 
would  soon  be  over.  It  was  an  occasion  for 
rejoicing  rather  than  tears.  There  were 
few  men  who  enjoyed  his  opportunities. 
Ever  since  he  had  received  his  sheepskin 
from  the  small  college  in  southern  Wiscon- 
sin he  had  served  as  tutor  at  that  institu- 
tion, and  had  climbed  slowly  to  the  rank  of 
professor  of  history.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
if  only  he  might  secure  a  doctorate  from 
some  Eastern  college  there  was  nothing  he 
might  not  become.  He  was  impatient  to 
get  out  in  the  world  and  to  try  his  wings, 
and  he  had  finally  selected  Maxwell  Uni- 
versity at  Fairview,  thinking  it  afforded 
him  the  finest  facilities  for  his  purpose. 
16 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

He  considered  it  one  of  the  leading  Eastern 
Universities,  and  would  have  been  sur- 
prised and  shocked  to  learn  that  Yale  and 
Harvard  regarded  it  as  decidedly  Western, 
and  spoke  of  it  scornfully  as  a  fresh- water 
university. 

Mrs.  Hardman  dried  her  eyes  and,  taking 
the  younger  child  in  her  arms,  prepared  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  her  lord  and  master. 
A  kitten  which  they  had  presented  to  a 
neighbor  the  previous  day  refused  to  adopt 
its  new  home  and  ran  mewing  after  her. 
She  tried  to  drive  it  back,  but  the  child 
cried  so  hard  for  it  that  she  was  forced  to 
pick  it  up  and  restore  it  to  the  baby's  arms. 

The  professor  had  preceded  her  by  sev- 
eral blocks.  He  held  a  bird  cage,  partly 
covered  by  a  newspaper,  in  one  hand,  and 
to  the  other  clung  tightly  his  older  son,  a 
boy  of  four  years. 

He  was  very  happy  as  he  walked  down 

the  village  street  in  the  bright  sunlight  of 

that  pleasant  September  morning.  He  sang 

softly  to  himself  in  the  joyousness  of  his 

1? 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

heart,  and  his  little  boy,  in  childish  imita- 
tion, danced  at  his  side  and  sang  also. 

Hardman's  breast  swelled  with  pride 
when  he  found  that  many  of  the  faculty 
had  honored  him  by  appearing  at  the  sta- 
tion to  bid  him  farewell;  the  president  of 
the  college  himself  had  called  upon  him  and 
had  given  him  a  hearty  handshake  and  his 
best  wishes  for  success.  He  felt  that  he 
was  a  very  lucky  fellow  indeed. 

The  succeeding  days  passed  like  a  rose- 
colored  dream  to  him.  He  did  not  notice 
the  fatigue  of  traveling,  augmented  by  the 
alternate  boisterous  mischief  and  fretful- 
ness  of  the  children.  Even  when  they  had 
reached  Fairview,  and  after  a  dreary 
search  for  rooms  convenient  to  the  Campus, 
and  within  reach  of  their  pathetically  slen- 
der purse,  had  begun  to  move  into  a  couple 
of  small,  desolate  apartments,  Hardman's 
cheerful  courage  did  not  desert  him.  He 
sang  gaily  as  he  put  up  the  rickety  old 
stove  in  the  room  which  was  to  serve  at 
once  for  parlor,  dining  room  and  kitchen, 
18 


"  Hardman's  Breast  Swelled  with  Pripe.' 
Page  1 8. 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

and  when  their  few  belongings  were  care- 
fully bestowed  he  glanced  about  with  an 
air  of  contented  pride. 

The  birds  were  singing  as  sweetly  from 
their  cage  in  the  window  as  ever  they  had 
done  at  Wayback.  The  kitten  was  purring 
softly  on  the  rug  before  the  stove,  and 
above  the  battered  chimney-piece  hung  the 
faded  bit  of  sheepskin  announcing  to  this 
new  world  that  Ezra  Hardman  had  been 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts 
in  1877  by  Wayback  College,  Wayback, 
Wisconsin. 

The  Hardmans  at  best  were  not  seriously 
hampered  with  this  world's  goods,  and  of 
their  scanty  supply  they  had  brought  only 
the  barest  necessities.  A  faded  "God  Bles3 
Our  Home/'  worked  in  variegated  crewels 
by  Mrs.  Hardman  when  she  was  Minnie. 
Smith,  was  the  sole  ornament  they  per- 
mitted themselves.  They  had  contrived 
some  seats  from  the  packing-boxes,  and 
these,  with  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  table  and  a 
stove,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  living- 
19 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

room.  A  few  worn  text  books  lay  piled  in  a 
corner. 

The  bedroom  was  furnished  with  even 
greater  simplicity.  Beside  the  bed  and  a 
small  cot  for  the  children  it  contained  only 
a  washstand  with  a  tin  basin  and  a  cracked 
water  pitcher.  It  was  not  magniflcent^  but 
it  satisfied  Hardman^  and,  as  one  of  the 
students  remarked  later,  "It  didn't  so  much 
matter  about  Hardman's  environment, 
since  his  smile  was  luxurious  enough  to 
furnish  a  palace." 

He  had  not  been  a  conspicuous  figure  in 
his  native  village,  but,  becoming  trans- 
planted to  a  campus  so  thoroughly  cosmo- 
politan as  was  that  of  Maxwell  University, 
he  stood  out  with  alarming  distinctness. 
Fortunately  for  his  peace  of  mind  he  did 
not  comprehend  this  fact,  being  one  of 
those  persons  destined  to  go  through  life 
totally  ignorant  of  the  impression  they 
create  on  others.  He  would  never  correct- 
ly interpret  the  curious  looks  and  sly 
smiles  and  backward  glances  that  accom- 
20 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

panied  Ms  appearance  on  the  campus. 

He  impressed  the  casual  observer  as  at 
once  ludicrous  and  pathetic.  His  legs  were 
long  and  very  much  bent  at  the  knees,  even 
when  he  stood  at  his  straightest,  and  were 
encased  in  trousers  of  a  whitey-brown  hue 
of  that  length  familiarly  known  as  "high- 
water.''  They  supported  a  body  at  once  so 
bulky  and  rotund  as  to  give  him  the  effect 
of  an  exaggerated  Brownie.  One  felt  sure 
nature  had  framed  his  anatomy  in  some 
wildly  sportive  humor.  His  head  was  large 
and  well  shaped  and  lighted  by  a  pair  of 
honest,  friendly,  blue  eyes.  A  snub  nose 
and  a  large,  smiling  mouth,  shaded  by  an 
extensive  reddish  mustache  exactly 
matched  by  his  curly  hair,  completed  Ms 
description. 

He  settled  down  to  work  with  a  tremen- 
dous enthusiasm,  after  having  squandered 
some  time  in  learning  the  routine  of  the  in- 
stitution, for  Maxwell  University  had 
among  its  faculty  ardent  admirers  of  the 
system  pursued  at  foreign  universities.    A 

n 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

conservative  professor  was  wont  to  ask, 
with  sarcastic  significance,  if  anyone  knew 
why  the  University  had  adopted  the  Sem- 
inary method  of  instruction,  and  why  can- 
didates for  advanced  degrees  were  com- 
pelled to  endure  a  final  oral  examination  of 
three  hours'  length.  On  being  answered  in 
the  negative,  he  would  reply:  "Because 
they  do  in  Germany." 

The  graduate  students  at  Maxwell  were 
expected  to  select  some  subject  in  which 
they  were  specially  interested,  and  which 
afforded  scope  for  original  investigation, 
and  to  prepare  weekly  reports  on  the  work 
throughout  the  Semester.  The  sessions  at 
which  these  reports  were  presented  were 
strictly  private,  and  were  presided  over  by 
a  professor,  who,  together  with  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Seminary,  openly  criticized  the 
reports. 

Hardman  made  his  debut  in  Professor 

Butler's    Seminary   with    his   accustomed 

buoyancy.    It  was  an  utterly  novel  method 

to  him,  as  he  had  never  deviated  from  the 

32 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A 

straight  and  narrow  path  of  question  and 
answer,  having  been  used  to  the  old-fash- 
ioned  system   of  laboriously   memorizing 
useful  information  from  a  text  book.    But 
after  a  time  he  "got  the  hang  of  the  pesky 
thing/'  as  he   expressed   it,    and  went  to 
work   on   the    subject   of   "Slavery."     He 
thought  it  timely  to  preface  his  initial  re- 
port by  some  appropriate  remarks  of  his 
own  on  the  nature  of  slavery,  but  the  pro- 
fessor cut  him  short  and  reminded  him  that 
the  Seminary  concerned  itself  with  facts, 
not  opinions,  however  valuable  these  might 
be.    This  fell  upon  Hardman  like  lightning 
from  a  clear  sky,  for  he  had  spent  a  week 
of  solid  work  on  the  subject,  and  felt  that 
it  was  good;  however,  he  accepted  what  he 
considered  the  harmless  idiosyncrasy  of  a 
superior  in  good  part  and  began  again.  But 
this  time  he  made  the  mistake  of  taking  his 
facts  from  secondary    authorities,    and  so 
lost  another  week  before  he  set  out  in  the 
right  direction.  Privately  he  considered  the 
professor  greatly  in  the  wrong,  and  told 
23 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

himself  he  should  never  require  one  of  his 
students  laboriously  to  fish  up  facts  from 
original  sources  when  great  men  like  Ma- 
caulay  and  Bancroft  had  gone  over  the 
ground  so  thoroughly  themselves. 

The  head  of  the  department  of  American 
history,  under  whom  Hardman  was  read- 
ing, was  Professor  Butler,  a  scholar  of  high 
authority  and  a  cultured  and  elegant  man 
of  the  world.  He  possessed  a  keen  sense  of 
humor,  caustic  rather  than  kindly,  and  he 
handled  Hardman  with  the  skill  of  the 
scientist  rather  than  that  of  the  philanthro- 
pist. The  young  Westerner  was  in  decided 
contrast  to  the  courteous  professor,  and  the 
Seminary  began  to  look  ahead  for  sport 
when  Hardman  offered  his  report. 

It  had  been  an  unusually  benignant  day 
in  early  October,  and  students  and  pro- 
fessors alike  were  taking  advantage  of  the 
mild  air  and  warm  sunlight.  The  Campus 
was  thronged  with  promenaders;  in  the  dis- 
tance, on  the  broad,  blue  river,  flashed  num- 
berless white  oars.  From  the  clock-tower 
24 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

sounded  four  strokes,  and  simultaneously 
Professor  Butler's  Seminary  students 
emerged  from  the  library.  Hardman  and  a 
fellow-student,  Markham,  walked  down  the 
Campus  together.  The  usually  cheerful  face 
of  the  former  wore  a  look  of  hopeless  per- 
plexity. 

"Thej  kinder  seem  t'  set  on  me,"  he  re- 
marked, sadly. 

"What  have  they  done  now?"  asked 
Markham,  sympathetically. 

"Well,  you  heard  him  lay  out  my  report," 
replied  Hardman,  "an'  I  guess  he's  tryin'  t' 
lay  me  out,  too.  He's  give  me  some  more 
French  books  t'  read  fer  examination." 

"Well,  French  is  easy,"  said  Markham, 
consolingly. 

"  'Tain't  very  easy  fer  me,"  sighed  Hard- 
man.  "They  didn't  use  t'  make  much  of  it 
to  Wayback,  where  I  was  learnt,  and  it 
comes  like  drawin'  teeth  t'  me  now." 

When  Hardman  reached  home  he  found 
his  wife  and  sons  preparing  to  set  out  for  a 
stroll. 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

"Oh,  Ezra/'  cried  Mrs.  Hardman,  as  her 
husband's  figure  entered  the  door,  "I'm  so 
glad  you  come;  we're  goin'  to  walk,  an'  we 
want  you  should  come,  too." 

"I  can't  go,"  said  Hardman,  gloomily. 
"They've  just  give  me  some  more  work,  an' 
I  dunno  ez  I  can  stop  fer  meals." 

The  children,  divining  with  their  unerr- 
ing instinct  that  something  troubled  their 
parent,  set  up  a  prolonged  howl  and  were 
sent  outside  by  their  mother.  They  played 
the  part  of  Greek  chorus  to  Hardman,  and 
faithfully  reflected  his  moods  by  smiles  or 
tears. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone  Mrs.  Hard- 
man  put  a  work-roughened  hand  caressing- 
ly on  her  husband's  worn  coat-sleeve. 

"Ezra,"  she  said,  sadly,  "let's  give  it  up. 
They're  not  like  us  here,  somehow — they're 
different,  an'  it's  wearing  you  out.  Let's 
give  it  up  an'  go  home,  Ezra." 

Her  tired,  blue  eyes  were  full  of  unshed 
tears  as  she  lifted  them  to  his  face. 

Hardman's  cheerfulness,  which  never 
26 


Ezra  Hardman,  M  A. 

long  deserted  him,  returned.  He  smiled  and 
took  his  wife  in  his  strong  arms. 

"Why,  Minnie,"  he  answered  gaily,  "you 
wouldn't  make  any  kind  of  a  soldier  if  you 
run  away  at  the  first  shot.  Doctor  Hard- 
man  intends  to  earn  his  degree,  ma'am." 

She  broke  dowm  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

"We  don't  see  nothin'  of  you  now,  Ezra, 
I  an'  the  children,  an'  we  used  t'  be  so 
happy  together  at  Wayback.  Seems  as  if 
we  shouldn't  never  get  back  there  again. 
An'  you  ain't  happy,  neither,  Ezra,  I  can 
see  that  well  'nough.  Nobody  can't  be 
happy  here — all  a-studying  till  their  poor 
eyes  gives  out,  an'  they  have  t'  wear  specs, 
an'  some  here  that  ain't  no  more'n  boys 
readin'  till  they  look  like  old  men.  I  tell  ye, 
Ezra,  it  ain't  right.  It  wa'n't  intended 
should  be  so." 

Ezra  laughed,  kissed  his  wife  and  told 
her  he  "couldn't  spare  no  more  time  frum 
his  work." 

She  dried  her  eyes  submissively  and  said 
meekly:  "Well,  I'll  go  right  along  now  with 
27 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

the  children.  We  ain't  ben  out  t'-day,  but 
I  tell  you,  Ezra,  this  college  ain't  no  bet- 
ter'n  a  big  old  spider  web  made  a-purpose 
t'  ketch  flies  an'  kill  'em,  an'  the  perfessers 
ain't  far  off  frum  bein'  spiders,  neither. 
Some  day,  Ezra,  we'll  be  dreadful  provoked 
and  sorry  we  come." 

As  Hardman  had  assured  his  wife  on 
leaving  Wayback,  the  two  years  at  Fair- 
view  were  not  long  in  passing.  It  was 
now  just  before  commencement.  He  had 
labored  faithfully  over  his  thesis,  and  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  Univer- 
sity, had  ordered  it  typewritten  and  bound. 
He  gazed  at  tine  fresh,  printed  pages  and 
read  the  gilt  inscription  on  the  outside 
cover  announcing  that  the  volume  con- 
cerned 

SLAVERY, 

A 

THESIS. 

Presented  for  the  degree  of  Ph.  D. 

BY 

EZRA  HARDMAN, 

Maxwell  University. 

28 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

with  an  air  of  triumphant  pride.  He 
grudged  sending  it  to  Professor  Butler  for 
criticism,  it  graced  the  little  home  so  well, 
and  he  enjoyed  reading  especially  fine  bits 
from  it  to  his  wife.  He  felt  that  now  the 
struggle  was  happily  concluded  and  he 
could  afford  to  take  a  well-earned  rest.  To 
be  sure,  his  oral  examinations  were  sched- 
uled to  take  place  on  the  following  day,  but 
he  did  not  greatly  fear  them,  although  a 
student  had  warned  him  that  they  were 
"stiff,"  and  also  that  Professor  Butler  was 
"a  holy  terror.'' 

"You  just  take  your  life  in  your  hand  at 
a  final  under  him,"  he  had  said.  "He  has 
flunked  more  men  to  the  square  inch  than 
any  professor  in  Maxwell.  You'd  better 
spend  the  night  in  fasting  and  prayer." 

But  Hardman  had  no  such  intention  of 
investing  Ms  time.  He  romped  with  the 
children  until  their  bedtime,  and  after  they 
were  safely  tucked  away  in  the  cot  he  invit- 
ed his  wife  to  take  a  walk  with  him,  and  he 
astonished  her  by  bringing  up  at  the  village 
29 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

pharmacy  and  treating  her  to  a  glass  of 
soda  water. 

"We'd  oughter  celebrate  t'-morrow  night 
instead/'  she  said,  looking  fondly  and  ad- 
miringly at  her  big,  uncouth  husband.  She 
was  very  proud  of  him  and  believed  him  to 
be  an  intellectual  giant,  as  well  as  a  very 
handsome  man. 

"We  may  not  get  the  chance  to-morrow," 
he  jested,  in  the  happy  consciousness  that 
only  a  day  separated  him  from  his  title. 

He  went  up  to  the  examinations  the  next 
morning  with  a  stout  heart.  There  were 
three  professors  composing  his  committee 
and  he  greeted  them  all  with  his  broad, 
suave  smile. 

The  contest  was  pathetically  unequal. 
Against  the  crude  immaturity  of  the  West- 
ern man  were  arrayed  the  keen,  well- 
trained  intellects  of  recognized  specialists, 
who  understood,  perhaps  too  well,  that 
they  held  the  honor  of  the  University  in 
their  keeping.  Under  such  circumstances 
but  one  result  could  be  reached.  Hardman 
30 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

met  his  Waterloo,  but  he  himself  never 
knew  it.  He  went  out  from  that  august 
presence  without  the  slightest  idea  that  he 
had  failed  to  take  the  degree. 

At  the  official  consultation  that  followed 
the  professors  were  decidedly  embarrassed. 

"You  should  have  warned  the  poor  fel- 
low, Butler/'  said  Professor  Morton.  "You 
might  have  saved  him  this." 

"I  did  give  him  some  pretty  broad  hints/' 
replied  he,  "but  he  does  not  seem  to  have 
understood.  Of  course  the  case  is  extreme- 
ly regrettable,  but  since  it  has  gone  so  far, 
why  not  give  him  the  degree?'' 

"Is  the  University  a  charitable  institu- 
tion?" asked  Professor  Pierce. 

"You  know  he  has  a  family  to  support," 
added  Butler. 

"If  he  had  appeared  at  the  examination 
with  a  little  son  under  each  arm,  and  said 
nothing,  it  would  have  been  the  most  ef- 
fective thing  he  could  possibly  have  done," 
remarked  Professor  Morton. 

"Of  course,  we  all  know  very  well  that  he 
31 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

is  an  applicant  for  the  highest  degree  the 
University  confers/'  said  Professor  Pierce. 
"Are  we  satisfied  to  allow  him  to  represent 
the  University  under  the  circumstances  ?'' 

"I  must  say  frankly  that  I  cannot  con- 
sent to  recommending  him  for  the  degree/' 
said  Professor  Morton. 

"Nor  can  I/'  said  Professor  Pierce. 

"Suppose  we  compromise  by  giving  him 
an  honorary  M.  A./'  suggested  Professor 
Butler.  "I  know  this  will  be  to  him  some- 
thing like  asking  for  bread  and  getting  a 
stone,  but  no  better  solution  of  the  problem 
occurs  to  me  now." 

Having  agreed  to  this  proposition  they 
separated  and  Professor  Butler  went  down 
to  Hardman's  rooms  to  announce  the  de- 
cision. 

"It  was  one  of  the  most  painful  experi- 
ences I  have  ever  known/'  he  told  his  col- 
leagues later.  "I  couldn't  get  him  to  realize 
it  at  first,  but  after  he  did  it  was  terrible. 
They  took  it  as  they  would  take  a  funeral." 

After  Professor  Butler's  departure  Hard- 
32 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

man  wearily  began  to  pack  away  the  hum- 
ble household  belongings  he  had  so  joy- 
ously disposed  about  the  rooms  only  two 
years  before.  Mrs.  Hardman  silently  as- 
sisted him.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  Outside  on  the  stone  doorstep  the 
two  children  sat  stroking  the  cat,  who 
purred  contentedly  between  them  in  happy 
ignorance  of  the  crushing  blow  that  had  de- 
scended upon  the  family.  Nor  did  the  chil- 
dren realize  the  full  extent  of  the  misfor- 
tune which  had  befallen  their  father,  but 
they  knew  that  something  awful  had  hap- 
pened, and  their  little  faces,  so  photograph- 
ic of  Hardman,  wore  an  expression  of  child- 
ish despair. 

Hardman  took  down  the  rusty  stove  pipe 
and  gazed  at  it  critically. 

"I  don't  b'leeve  it's  wuth  carryin'  home, 
Minnie,"  he  remarked. 

She  shook  her  head  in  affectionate  as- 
sent. 

"I  don't  know  but  it's  ez  wuthy  of  goin' 
back  ez  I  be,"  he  went  on,  in  sad  medita- 
33 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

tion.  "I  dunno  but  it's  done  its  work  ez 
well.'' 

Mrs.  Hardman  paused  in  the  act  of  fold- 
ing a  worn  little  dress  belonging  to  one  of 
the  children. 

"You  shan't  say  that,  Ezra,"  she  said, 
with  a  suspicious  break  in  her  voice.  "You 
done  your  work  good  an'  faithful  here,  an' 
nobody  can't  make  me  b'leeve  you  didn't. 
Ef  they  won't  give  you  the  degree  when 
you  earned  it  fair  it's  just  because  they're 
jealous." 

Hardman  was  too  hopeless  to  assent  to 
this  encouraging  and  comforting  view  of 
the  case.  He  flung  the  rejected  stove-pipe 
far  out  of  the  open  window  and  watched  it 
become  a  magnificent  ruin  on  the  ash-heap 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  Above  his  head 
the  canaries  twittered  apprehensively.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  peaceful  landscape  before 
him  was  mocking  him  derisively.  The  dis- 
tant blue  river  winked  knowingly  at  him. 
He  heard  the  silver-tongued  University 
chimes  chronicling  his  disgrace  across  the 
34 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

Campus.  Even  the  trees  appeared  to  be 
whispering  together  about  him.  He  won- 
dered how  he  would  be  received  at  Way- 
back.  He  had  taught  there  to  the  best  of 
his  ability  for  the  last  ten  years.  Would 
they  permit  him  to  return,  dishonored  as 
he  was,  and  take  up  again  the  sweet  accus- 
tomed life?  He  felt  that  he  could  not  blame 
them  if  they  refused,  and  demanded  his  res- 
ignation; and  what  institution  could  he 
hope  to  find  willing  to  welcome  a  person 
thus  doubly  reproached? 

He  experienced  a  curious  dislike  for  him- 
self, a  strange  sense  of  a  dual  identity,  as  if 
he  were  at  once  some  poor  hunted  mis- 
creant, and  a  member  of  a  righteously  in- 
dignant public  judging  him.  He  turned 
away  from  the  window  with  a  sudden  dark- 
ness before  his  eyes  and  a  queer  ringing  in 
his  ears,  and  from  out  the  darkness  he  felt 
a  pair  of  warm  and  loving  arms  about  his 
neck  and  heard  a  tremulous  voice  say:  ^'Oh, 
Ezra,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  suffer  so;  it 
breaks  my  heart.  It  don't  make  no  differ- 
35 


Ezra  Hardman,  M.A. 

ence  t'  me  'bout  the  old  degree,  Ezra,  be- 
cause you  know  I  know  you  deserved  it — 
an'  I  love  you,  Ezra." 

Two  days  later  the  Hardmans'  rooms 
were  vacant  and  they  were  speeding  away 
to  the  friends  at  Wayback  who  were  eager- 
ly waiting  to  welcome  the  new-made  doctor 
with  his  distinguished  honors. 

A  year  after  Hardman's  departure  as 
Professor  Butler  was  glancing  over  the 
^^Maxwell  Herald"  at  breakfast  his  eye  was 
caught  by  the  following  paragraph:  "It 
gives  us  pleasure  to  announce  that  Pro- 
fessor Ezra  Hardman,  who  holds  the  chair 
of  Modern  History  at  Wayback  College, 
Wayback,  Wisconsin,  has  accepted  the 
presidency  of  that  institution,  and  will  en- 
ter upon  his  new  duties  immediately.  Pres- 
ident Hardman  received  the  honorary  de- 
gree of  Master  of  Arts  from  Maxwell  Uni- 
versity last  June." 


36 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 


37 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

THE  University  clock  struck  twelve, 
announcing  midnight  to  the  little 
college  world  so  peacefully  asleep  in 
the  moonlight.  Absolute  quiet  reigned  over 
the  Campus,  a  quiet  intensified  by  its  con- 
trast with  the  daily  activity  when  the  dark 
and  silent  buildings  were  thronged  by  a 
continual  rushing  to  and  fro  of  eager  young 
students.  An  experienced  eye,  however, 
would  have  detected  signs  of  life  high  up 
in  a  remote  tower  of  Burton  Hall,  the  dor- 
mitory devoted  to  the  use  of  the  women 
students  at  Fairview  University.  Not  even 
the  thick  curtains  carefully  drawn  across 
the  windows  could  conceal  entirely  the 
light  within,  but  the  five  girls  who  had  rec- 
ognized and  secured  to  themselves  the  pos- 
39 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

sibilities  of  this  unused  and  distant  room 
were  too  popular  to  fear  discovery  of  their 
frequent  violation  of  the  college  rule  that 
all  lights  must  be  extinguished  at  ten 
o'clock. 

The  impromptu  spread  was  in  full 
swing;  each  girl  had  contributed  her  fa- 
vorite species  of  refreshment,  and  the  re- 
sult was  a  heterogeneous  array  of  eatables, 
over  whose  formidable  test  only  a  college 
girl's  digestion  could  triumph.  The  fur* 
nishings  of  the  room  were  as  heterogeneous 
and  curiously  characteristic  as  the  refresh- 
ments. The  walls  were  graced  by  sundry 
signs  captured  from  the  village  shops  by 
daring  masculine  friends  at  extreme  haz- 
ard. In  one  corner  the  Harvard  colors 
flamed  triumphantly  above  the  framed  pho- 
tograph of  the  Yale  crew,  and  beneath  the 
chandelier  a  huge  Princeton  horn,  sus- 
pended by  the  Fairview  colors,  rendered 
more  emphatic  this  harmonious  democracy 
of  decoration. 

There  was  a  bright  fire  of  logs  burning 
40 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

on  the  hearth,  for,  eyen  though  the  season 
was  early  in  April,  the  air  still  held  a  hint 
of  frost.  Near  the  fire  stood  a  tiny  tea- 
table  and  chafing-dish,  in  which  a  tall  girl 
was  carefully  preparing  a  rarebit. 

Anne  Livingston's  face  was  remarkably 
sweet  and  thoughtful  in  expression,  but  its 
chief  charm  existed  not  in  the  clear,  dark 
eyes  and  regular  features,  but  in  that  qual- 
ity so  diflflcult  to  define,  and  so  generally 
and  satisfactorily  explained  as  ^^interest- 
ing." People  usually  interpreted  this 
charm  by  the  fact  that  she  was  one  of  the 
most  clever  students  in  the  University; 
that  she  was  the  only  child  of  Livingston 
Livingston,  the  wealthy  lawyer  of  New 
York,  who  deplored  and  ignored  as  far  as 
possible  his  daughter's  brilliant  accom- 
plishments; but  the  real  cause  lay  deeper, 
in  Anne's  own  vivid  and  magnetic  person- 
ality. 

At  her  feet  sat  a  young  girl  busily  en- 
gaged in  toasting  rounds  of  bread  before 
the  fire.  She  was  the  exact  opposite  of  her 
41 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

tall,  dark  neighbor,  being  dimpled,  petite 
and  blonde.  Katlierine  Halliday  was  the 
gayest  student  at  Fairview,  and  it  was  a 
matter  of  wonder  to  everyone  how  she  man- 
aged to  retain  her  position  in  the  institu- 
tion, for  no  function,  however  small,  oc- 
curred without  her  enlivening  presence. 
The  remaining  three  girls  represented  the 
average  type  of  college  women  and  formed 
an  effective  background  for  these  two 
prominent  actors  in  the  tiny  drama  of  uni- 
versity life. 

^^Yes,"  said  Anne,  giving  a  tentative  stir 
to  the  smoking,  savory  compound  before 
her,  ^^I  believe  that  accident  teaches  us  far 
more  about  ourselves  than  anything  else 
does.  We  really  learn  more  objectively 
than  subjectively.  The  light  of  circum- 
stance reveals  us  to  ourselves  more  in  one 
moment  than  do  years  of  self-analysis.'' 

"It's  against  the  rules  to  talk  shop  after 
hours,"  objected  one  of  the  girls. 

"What  a  false  idea^  Anne,"  said  the 
young  reprobate  on  the  hearth  rug.  "I  hold 
42 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

with  my  friend,  A.  Tennyson,  of  whom  you 
may  have  heard  me  speak,  that  ^man  is 
man,  and  master  of  his  fate';  likewise 
woman/' 

^^You're  in  good  company,"  replied  Anne, 
"but,  nevertheless,  you're  wrong." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  asseverated  Katherine, 
stoutly.  "One  can't,  of  course,  exactly 
know  w^hat  will  occur,  but  one  can  arrange 
one's  life  within  reasonable  limits.  For  in- 
stance, I  foresee  for  sure  that  to-morrow  at 
ten  A.  M.  I  shall  flunk  chemistry  because  I 
came  to  your  spread  instead  of  boning  for 
the  quiz." 

"No,  you  won't,  Kittie,"  said  one  of  the 
girls;  "you'll  get  Tom  Allen  to  write  out 
the  answer  for  you,  as  you  did  the  last 
time." 

"But  what  I  mean,"  said  Anne,  begin- 
ning to  drop  the  steaming  rarebit  on 
rounds  of  buttered  toast,  "is  the  tremen- 
dous surprises  one  is  always  giving  one- 
self. Now,  I  feel  I  never  know  what  is 
going  to  happen,  nor  what  I  am  going  to 
43 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

do.  I  never  can  prophesy  myself  to  my- 
self/' 

"I  can,  Anne,"  said  Kuby  Harding, 
laughing.  ^^You  will  marry  the  Professor 
of  Greek,  since  you  are  engaged  to  him, 
and  settle  down  in  the  University  as  Mrs. 
Allerton.  It  is  not  difficult  to  be  a  clair- 
voyant in  your  case.'' 

The  log  rolled  off  the  andirons  and  sent 
a  sudden,  flickering  flame  forth  into  the 
room,  which  reflected  itself  in  a  vivid  red 
on  Katherine's  round,  young  face.  The 
flame  vanished  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had 
risen,  but  that  sudden,  brilliant  scarlet  re- 
mained on  the  girl's  face. 

•!»  «1*  *!•  «!•  ftf*  •!•  «£• 

»J»  iji  wj^  »I»  wji  •J»  Sfi 

The  April  woods  were  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  approaching  summer.  The  bare 
boughs  were  burdened  with  brown  and 
bursting  buds,  among  whose  cathedral-like 
arches  an  occasional  and  early  bluebird 
was  "prophesying  spring"  and  tiny  shoots 
of  tender  green  were  beginning  to  push  up 
through  the  dark  earth.  There  was  a  ca- 
44 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

ressing  softness  in  the  air  on  this  particu- 
lar morning,  and  Anne  Livingston  walked 
briskly  along  the  little,  curving  path  that 
led  through  the  forest,  and  felt  that  it  was 
good  to  be  alive.  She  was  in  unusually  line 
spirits,  born  of  youth,  health  and  the  pleas- 
ant exhilaration  of  walking.  A  squirrel 
scampered,  frightened,  across  her  path  to 
his  home  in  a  neighboring  oak.  The  warm 
sunlight  lay  in  long,  shining  bars  among 
the  dusky  shadows  of  the  wood.  She  felt 
a  strange  sense  of  peace  and  well-being;  a 
keen  appreciation  of  the  young  spring  and 
a  subtle  sympathy  with  its  daw^ning  beau* 

An  abrupt  turn  in  the  path  led  her  into 
a  small  glen  made  vocal  by  a  little  brown 
brook  brawling  noisily  over  the  stones.  A 
bit  of  verse  from  Browning  floated  lazily 
throu2:h  her  mind. 


*'  A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water,  single  and  slim. 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings." 

45 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

How  accurately  the  real  scene  corre- 
sponded with  the  fictional  one,  with  this 
difference,  that  the  lovers  of  the  poem  were 
wanting;  but,  stay,  surely  the  man  and 
woman  standing  alone  at  some  distance 
from  the  pathway,  and  of  whose  existence 
she  becomes  at  once  almost  instinctively 
aware,  are  without  doubt  lovers.  The  anal- 
ogy with  the  poem  is  complete.  His  arms 
are  about  her;  her  head  is  resting  upon  his 
breast,  and  as  Anne  gives  one  quick,  fright^ 
ened  glance  toward  them  she  sees  their  lips 
meet.  That  one  swift  glance  assures  her 
that  these  Arcadian  lovers  are  none  other 
than  her  own  betrothed  and  her  dearest 
friend.  She  turned  away,  undiscovered  by 
the  two,  who  had  forgotten  all  the  world 
save  themselves,  and  retraced  her  steps  me- 
chanically. 

The  suddenness  of  the  revelation  made 
her  dizzy;  the  singing  of  the  birds,  the  mu- 
sic of  the  tiny  brook,  the  yellow,  flickering 
sunlight,  to  whose  charms  she  had  been  so 
keenly  alive  a  moment  before,  had  no 
46 


j-jpSg^-r^n^ ' 


"  Anne  Gives  One  Quick,  Frightened  Gi^ancj:— " 
Page  46. 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

power  to  impress  her  now.  She  saw  only 
those  familiar  and  well-loved  figures  and 
was  conscious  only  of  that  vividly  remem- 
bered kiss. 

"I  hold  with  my  friend,  A.  Tennyson,  of 
whom  you  may  have  heard  me  speak,  that 
^man  is  man,  and  master  of  his  fate' — like- 
wise woman."  With  what  strange,  almost 
photographic  accuracy,  Katherine's  light 
words  kept  reiterating  themselves  among 
the  wild  chaos  of  her  thoughts,  until  at 
length  they  seemed  like  a  direct  challeng- 
ing of  fate.  .  .  .  Was  it  only  yesterday 
since  she  had  seen  her  lying  in  lazy  luxury 
upon  the  hearth  rug,  pretty  and  debon- 
nair,  and  smilingly  asserting  her  bold  de- 
fiance of  Destiny? 

Instinctively  she  managed  to  find  her  way 
back  to  her  own  room  in  Burton  Hall,  and 
amid  the  familiar  surroundings  her  vague 
thoughts  grew  clear  and  consecutive  again. 
She  removed  the  diamond  ring  she  had 
worn  for  more  than  a  year,  and  together 
with  some  letters  and  photographs  placed 
•47 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

it  in  a  neat  parcel,  which  she  directed  to' 
him  in  her  usual  firm,  bold  script.  She  put 
on  her  hat  and  went  out  to  attend  the  usual 
recitation  in  Greek. 


It  was  evening  again,  a  cool,  sweet  scent- 
ed evening,  lit  by  a  round,  white  moon. 
Anne  sat  by  the  open  window,  waiting.  She 
felt  herself  far  enough  removed  from  the 
experience  of  the  morning  to  give  the  inci- 
dent perspective,  and  to  regard  it  in  its  true 
light.  She  had  control  of  herself  now,  of 
her  usual  calm,  judicious  self,  and  she  was 
criticizing  that  self  with  the  cool  compos- 
ure of  philosophical  analysis;  criticizing 
that  part  of  herself  which  was  writhing  in 
the  agony  of  its  death  struggle  before  her. 
She  was  finding  it  difficult  to  realize  that 
her  idol  was  of  clay;  difficult  to  resign  him 
even  to  her  dearest  friend,  for  she,  too,  had 
known  the  comfort  of  his  sheltering  arms 
and  the  sweetness  of  his  kiss. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  summoned  back 
48 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

for  one  brief  instant  the  bitter-sweet  mem- 
ory. Ah,  Christ,  how  could  men  be  so 
false!  Of  the  real  man  she  reflected  bitter- 
ly, she  knew  almost  nothing;  he  had  been 
but  a  semblance  who  had  seemed  such  a 
reality.  She  considered  carefully  her 
know^ledge  of  him,  eliminating  his  hand- 
some face,  and  those  delightful  manners 
his  social  opportunities  had  taught  him, 
and  she  acknowledged  with  a  sigh  that  she 
knew  him  not  at  all.  She  confessed  her  in- 
ability to  recognize  him  in  the  darkness. 

But  at  the  burial  of  her  dead  hopes  she 
was  determined  to  permit  no  unnecessary 
mourning.  She  lighted  a  candle  and  gazed 
scrutinizingly  at  her  own  reflection  in  the 
mirror.  The  beautiful,  grave  face  looked 
back  at  her  in  silent  sympathy.  She  re- 
membered a  night  when  a  young,  laughing 
face,  the  embodiment  of  perfect  happiness, 
had  smiled  out  at  her  from  that  same  mir- 
ror, but  between  those  two  significant  mo- 
ments of  self-revelation  lay  a  fool's  para- 
dise. The  theft  had  been  pathetically  per- 
49 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

feet;  not  even  the  comfort  of  memory  re- 
mained. 

The  maid  announced  him,  as  usual,  and 
as  she  descended  the  staircase  she  told  her- 
self that  there  must  be  nothing  unusual  in 
their  parting;  he  must  never  suspect  what 
she  had  suffered. 

He  came  forward  to  greet  her  with  all 
his  accustomed  eagerness;  his  handsome, 
faithless  eyes  smiled  fearlessly  down  upon 
her  as  she  stood  quietly  before  him.  She 
placed  the  parcel  containing  his  gifts  in  his 
wondering  hands  and  smiled  back  at  him 
with  equal  fearlessness. 

"You  may  think  me  erratic/'  she  said; 
"no  doubt  you  will;  but,  none  the  less,  I 
have  not  reached  this  decision  inconsider- 
ately. Believe  me,  I  have  considered  it  thor- 
oughly, and  so  I  have  come  down  to-night 
to  tell  you  that  everything  is  at  an  end  be- 
tween us.'' 

He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment,  and 
she  went  on. 

"Do  not  ask  me  for  my  reasons;  I  assure 
50 


The  Light  of  Circumstance. 

you  that  they  are  quite  sufi&cient,  quite  de- 
fensible, in  fact,  but,  possibly,  it  may  be 
easier  for  you  to  believe  that  I  am  merely 
variable  and  inconsequent." 

She  stepped  backward  toward  the  door, 
and  away  from  him.  Never  had  she  looked 
more  beautiful  and  more  unapproachable. 
With  an  overwhelming  conviction  he  sud- 
denly realized  how  absolutely  and  hope- 
lessly he  loved  her. 

^^Anne,''  he  said,  whisperingly,  extend- 
ing his  eager  arms  toward  her. 

From  the  safe  fortress  of  the  threshold 
she  turned  to  smile  upon  him,  forgivingly, 
friendlily,  but  utterly  dispassionately. 

"Katherine  was  right,"  she  said,  calmly; 
"man  is  master  of  his  fate,"  and  the  next 
instant  he  was  alone. 


51 


LJHfpS 
Of  rne 
UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 


53 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

'^in  HEEE  was  so  curious  an  expression 

X  of  mingled  amusement,  consterna- 
tion and  dread  on  the  usually  placid 
features  of  Professor  Burton  as  he  sat 
reading  his  letters  at  breakfast  that  the 
trim  little  serving-maid  gazed  at  him  in 
wide-eyed  astonishment;  for  the  first  time 
in  her  experience  of  him  the  master  had 
forgotten  to  eat. 

He  sat  staring  at  the  open  letter  in  his 
hand  while  the  coffee  cooled  unheeded  and 
the  hot  rolls  grew  cold  and  hard.  The  let- 
ter was  a  brief,  innocent-seeming  missive, 
betraying  no  sign  of  its  power  to  create 
such  dismay  and  alarm  in  the  breast  of  the 
popular  young  professor  of  Greek  at  Fair- 
view  University.  It  was  a  succinct,  busi- 
55 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton.  •    ' 

ness-like  epistle,  wasting  no  unnecessary 
paper  and  ink  in  telling  him  that  its  writer 
was  the  sister  of  a  dead  classmate,  a  class- 
mate between  whom  and  himself  had  ex- 
isted only  the  ordinary  familiarity  of  a 
chance  acquaintanceship;  that  she  intend- 
ed to  enter  the  co-educational  institution 
over  whose  Greek  department  he  had  the 
honor  of  presiding;  that,  trusting  to  the 
proverbial  affection  of  Yale  men  for  one 
another,  she  would  arrive  at  his  house 
without  delay. 

^^It  would  have  been  kinder  to  have  men- 
tioned the  hour,"  he  reflected,  ruefully,  ^^f or 
I  might  have  arranged  to  be  absent."  He 
re-read  the  letter  carefully,  in  a  forlorn 
hope  that  he  might  have  mistaken  its  mean- 
ing; it  had  changed  everything  so  suddenly 
and  so  radically,  and  had  made  his  hitherto 
comfortable  existence  seem  unreal  and  al- 
ready like  a  distant  dream. 

^'By  Jove,  I  wish  she  had  written  when 
she  was  coming,"  he  thought.  "I  shall  now 
tremble  with  terror  every  time  the  bell 
S6 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

rings.  I  hope  she  will  do  me  the  honor  to 
remain  away  until  I  can  secure  lodgings 
for  her  somewhere.  She  evidently  doesn't 
know  that  I  am  a  mere  bachelor.'' 

As  if  in  malicious  answer  to  his  thought 
the  door-bell  pealed  with  unwonted  dis- 
tinctness throughout  the  house.  It  struck 
him  that  there  was  a  mischievous  tri- 
umph in  its  metallic  tones,  and  he  was 
quite  prepared  to  read  upon  the  somewhat 
ostentatious  card  the  housemaid  presented, 
this  legend  in  a  bold,  black  script — 


:      SYLVIA  GRAHAM  KIMBERTON.      : 

"  'Tis  a  young  lady,  sor,"  said  the  maid, 
"an'  I  tould  her  you'd  be  having  your  break- 
fast, an'  she  said  she'd  had  hers  already, 
and  was  in  no  hurry,  sor." 

He  drank  his  coffee  hastily  and  absent- 
mindedly.  "At  any  rate,  she  hasn't  kept 
me  long  in  suspense,"  he  reflected,  with  a 
grim  smile.  "She's  guillotined  me  with  all 
67 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

the  neatness  and  dispatch  of  her  native 
West.  If  this  is  Kansas  energy — give  me 
death.'^ 

He  walked  down  the  brief  corridor  and 
entered  the  drawing-room.  A  figure  rose 
at  his  entrance,  a  figure  not  at  all  in  con- 
sonance with  the  attractive  and  dainty  ap- 
pointments of  the  room.  He  felt  an  instant 
repulsion  toward  the  large,  florid  young 
woman  who  was  advancing  upon  him  with 
outstretched  hand.  She  was  everything 
that  he  disliked  most,  being  elephantine  in 
a  perspiring,  good-natured  way,  and  he 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  she  was  abso- 
lutely devoid  of  that  rare  tact  which  teach- 
es one  to  avoid  wounding  the  feelings  of 
others;  in  short,  he  realized  instantly  that 
she  was  impossible. 

"Of  course  you  got  my  letter?''  she  in- 
quired, genially,  grasping  his  hand  ener- 
getically in  her  young,  powerful  clasp.  "I 
wasn't  goin'  to  write  at  first — I  was  goin'  to 
surprise  you,  and  make  you  guess  who  I 


58 


-^^^^es^^l^- 


'  She  Was  Everything  He  Disliked." 


Page  58. 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

"I  am  not  good  at  conundrums/'  he  an- 
swered, smiling  helplessly  at  the  situation 
in  which  he  found  himself.  "I  have  never 
guessed  one  in  my  life,  so  that  I  fear  that 
you  would  have  had  me  at  a  disadvantage." 

^^Do  you  live  here  all  by  yourself?"  she 
asked,  glancing  about  at  the  small,  well- 
appointed  room. 

He  nodded  affirmatively,  feeling  incapa- 
ble of  speech. 

"Well,  this  is  luck,"  she  went  on  con- 
tentedly.   "I  was  afraid  you  boarded." 

"I  used,"  he  said,  finding  his  truant 
tongue  at  last,  "but  I  found  I  could  not 
control  my  time,  nor  the  noise  of  the  board- 
ing-house, so  I  concluded  to  take  this  cot- 
tage for  my  bachelor  barracks.  I'm  a  bit 
of  a  hermit,  a  regular  recluse,  in  fact;  al- 
though I  do  not  hate  my  fellow-man,  I  can 
manage  to  exist  happily  without  much  of 
him.  I — I — I  really  love  loneliness  at 
times." 

He  congratulated  himself  upon  his  di- 
plomacy. It  would  be  well  to  impress  upon 
59 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

her  the  desirability  of  beating  a  speedy  re- 
treat from  so  hopelessly  confirmed  a  Crusoe. 
She  shook  her  head  at  him  jauntily. 

^^We  shall  change  all  that/'  she  said,  con- 
fidently. "It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone.'' 

He  stared  at  her  aghast.  Did  she  in- 
tend seriously  to  take  up  her  abode  in  his 
bachelor  household?  It  looked  remarkably 
like  it.  He  felt  that  there  was  only  one 
resource  remaining — instant  flight.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  the  supposition  rose  from 
his  overtired  brain;  he  had  been  working 
very  late  at  night  for  the  past  week.  A 
walk  through  the  fresh,  morning  woods 
might  restore  his  tone,  and  help  him  to  dis- 
cover some  way  in  which  to  extricate  him- 
self from  this  mysterious  and  wretched  web 
which  seemed  to  have  woven  itself  so  sud- 
denly and  subtly  about  him. 

He  had  a  dim  recollection  of  pleading  a 

business  engagement;  of  groping  for  his 

hat  and  stick;  in  some  fashion  of  getting 

out  of  the  house — his  familiar,  comfortable 

60 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

little  home — and  then  the  welcome  pres- 
ence of  the  brilliant  Autumn  woods. 

His  sense  of  humor  returned  as  he  walked 
briskly  over  the  fallen  leaves.  He  won- 
dered ruefully  why  the  gods  had  ^ver  be- 
stowed a  classmate  like  poor  Kimberton 
upon  him,  and  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
recent  scene  in  his  drawing-room  he 
laughed  aloud.  He  laughed  a  long  time  all 
alone  in  the  depths  of  the  secret-safe  forest. 
It  certainly  was  a  humorous  adventure  for 
a  quiet,  inoffensive  gentleman.  How  few 
of  his  colleagues  probably  had  experienced 
the  like  sensation  of  having  their  peaceful, 
matin  meal  so  effectively  interrupted. 
.  .  .  Yes,  he  must  decide  about  the  dis- 
posal of  his  unexpected  guest.  She  must 
be  placed  immediately  in  some  suitable 
lodgings.  Some  one  must  assist  him — it 
was  so  unusual  a  task.  There  was  the  kind- 
ly wife  of  the  President  of  the  University — 
no  doubt  she  would  extricate  him  from  his 
dilemma;  she  was  a  good,  motherly  woman. 

He  retraced  his  steps  rapidly,  and  was 
61 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

soon  ascending  the  stone  steps  leading  to 
the  presidential  mansion,  but  the  smart 
maid  who  responded  to  his  ring  informed 
him  that  her  mistress  had  been  summoned 
suddenly  to  New  York  the  day  previous. 

He  walked  down  the  straight  brick  path 
to  the  road  in  perplexed  cogitation.  There 
was  no  one  else  on  the  Campus  who  would 
have  grasped  the  situation  so  sympatheti- 
cally and  so  understandingly.  It  seemed 
particularly  hard  that  she  should  be  re- 
moved at  this  critical  juncture.  .  .  . 
There  was  Mrs.  Leonard,  the  wife  of  the 
Latin  instructor — possibly  she  would  come 
to  his  rescue;  he  was  quite  a  favorite  of 
hers.  But  Mrs.  Leonard  chanced  to  have 
gone  shopping  in  the  village,  and  there  was 
no  one  left  to  whom  he  might  turn  for  aid 
unless — it  was  a  forlorn  hope,  but,  perhaps, 
he  might  interest  young  Mrs.  Lexicon  in 
the  affair.  She  had  been  very  cordial  to 
him  at  a  reception  given  in  honor  of  her 
marriage  a  few  weeks  before,  and  he  felt 
that  she  liked  him. 

62 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

He  rang  her  bell  in  no  slight  trepidation, 
feeling  that  only  his  dire  need  exonerated 
him.  She  came  down  to  greet  him  almost 
instantly.  He  could  have  wished  that  she 
had  given  him  more  time  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  She  looked  very  sweet,  and 
youthful  and  gracious,  as  she  sat  opposite 
him  amid  her  Lares  and  Penates,  which 
bore  unmistakable  signs  of  being  recent 
wedding  gifts. 

She  was  smiling  at  him  expectantly,  for 
she  realized  that  it  was  something  unusual 
to  be  receiving  a  morning  visit  from  so  busy 
a  man  as  Professor  Burton. 

"I  have  ventured  to  trespass  on  your  time 
and  courtesy,"  he  began,  hesitatingly  (in 
what  an  extremely  difficult  position  he 
found  himself  innocently  involved!), "to  ask 
your  advice — your  assistance.'' 

She  leaned  forward  with  genuine  inter- 
est. 

"I  have — that  is — um — there  is  a  young 
woman,  the  sister  of  a  classmate — "  (How 
63 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

difficult  speech  was  becoming!)  '' — um — 
stopping  temporarily  at  my  house.  .  .  . 
She  arrived  quite — in  fact,  totally  unex- 
pectedly this  morning.  She  seems  extraor- 
dinarily unaware  that  under  the  circum- 
stances it  is  utterly  impossible  for  me  to 
offer  her  a  home.  I  do  not  seem  able  to 
impress  this  fact  upon  her." 

"It's  odd  she  doesn't  see  it,"  remarked 
the  pretty  young  matron.  "Where  can  she 
have  lived?" 

"Ah,  that's  the  point,"  he  answered,  sad- 
ly; "that  explains  everything.  She  is  from 
the  West — worse  than  from  the  West — 
from  Kansas." 

A  curious  expression  flitted  across  the 
girlish  face  so  smilingly  turned  toward  him. 
He  recalled  this  expression  afterward  when 
some  one  happened  to  mention  that  Mrfe. 
Lexicon  had  been  born  and  bred  in  Kansas. 

"Then  it  is  absolutely  hopeless,  I  sup- 
pose," she  remarked. 

"I  fear  it  is,"  he  assented,  dolefully.  "Her 
conceptions  of  life  are  so  totally  unlike 
64 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

ours.  She  wishes  to  enter  the  University, 
and  she  intends  to  reside  with  me." 

He  seemed  so  genuinely  dejected  that  the 
young  girl  laughed — a  merry  laugh,  full  of 
enjoyment. 

"If  you  think  you  can  spare  her,"  she  be- 
gan, mischievously,  "I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
offer  her  a  home  with  me  until  she  can  get 
settled  somewhere.  I've  always  yearned  to 
study  the  Western  Girl,  especially  the  Kan- 
sas variety,  and  this  will  be  a  good  oppor- 
tunity." 

"Keally,  you  are  too  kind,"  he  said,  ear- 
nestly. "You  can't  imagine  what  a  relief 
it  is." 

"I'll  go  up  to  the  house  with  you  if  you 
like,"  she  said,  rising  to  fetch  her  hat  and 
gloves. 

As  they  neared  the  pretty,  vine-clad  cot- 
tage the  young  professor  experienced  a 
curious,  valedictory  sensation,  as  if  he  were 
a  ghost  permitted  to  revisit  for  a  moment 
the  scenes  where  he  had  been  happy  in  life. 
Everything  seemed  changed  since  the  brief 
65 


Sylvia  Graham  Klmberton. 

time  he  had  been  absent.  The  shutters  were 
flung  wide  open  to  the  bright  morning  sun, 
and  from  an  upper  chamber  floated  down 
the  catchy  refrain  of  a  popular  opera.  Evi- 
dently his  occidental  friend  had  wasted  no 
unnecessary  time  in  making  herself  thor- 
oughly at  home.  Unless  the  sweet,  young 
matron  beside  him  had  power  to  deliver 
him  from  his  peril,  he  felt  that  he  was 
doomed.  He  must  say  good-bye  to  the  com- 
fort of  the  dear  little  house;  good-bye  to  all 
that  quiet  which  his  scholar's  soul  loved; 
good-bye  to  the  peaceful,  twilight  evenings 
in  the  garden,  where  he  was  wont  to  linger 
over  his  post-prandial  cigar,  and  watch  the 
young  moon  rising  behind  the  hills;  good- 
bye to  all  that  his  heart  held  dear,  for  the 
old  order  had  suddenly  changed. 

There  was  no  need  to  summon  his  new- 
found friend,  for  she  had  espied  their  ap- 
proach from  the  upper  window,  and  was 
rushing  stormily  downstairs  to  welcome 
them.  She  flung  herself  enthusiastically 
upon  young  Mrs.  Lexicon. 
66 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  coon's  age/'  she 
gasped,  "not  since  we  left  school.  Where 
have  you  dropped  from?" 

The  young  professor  regarded  the  scene 
with  a  mixture  of  astonishment  and  relief. 
There  seemed  so  very  little  in  common  be- 
tween the  coarse,  strapping  girl  from  Kan- 
sas and  the  dainty  figure  of  Professor  Lexi- 
con's wife.  Since  they  were  school  friends, 
however,  the  wretched  problem  seemed 
capable  of  solution;  fortune  smiled  again 
propitious. 

"I  learned  that  you  were  here  quite  acci- 
dentally," said  Mrs.  Lexicon,  gently  disen- 
gaging herself  from  the  embrace  of  those 
powerful  arms,  "and,  of  course,  I  at  once 
made  haste  to  call,  because  you  must  come 
to  an  old  friend  like  me  until  you  can  find  a 
place  in  the  college." 

The  Western  girl  paused,  and  a  cloud 
crossed  her  genial,  good-humored  face.  She 
turned  to  the  silent  young  man. 

"But  how  will  you  get  along  all  alone?" 
she  asked, 

67 


Sylvia  Graham  Kimberton. 

"Oh,  I  daresay  I  shall  manage  somehow; 
the  Lord  will  provide.  Don't  give  yourself 
any  uneasiness  on  my  account/'  he  an- 
swered, with  emphasis.  "I  daresay  I  shall 
get  on  very  well." 

She  gazed  at  him  disbelievingly. 

"He  was  poor  Dick's  classmate/' she  said, 
slowly,  "and  I  feel  my  duty  is  to  him  first. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  go  away  with  you  and  be 
happy,  and  have  to  think  of  him  all  lonely 
here  by  himself,  and  out  of  all  the  fun  goin'. 
No,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  leave  him." 

But  at  length,  under  their  united  persua- 
sions, and  much  against  her  will,  she  was 
induced  to  accompany  Mrs.  Lexicon  home, 
and  as  the  robust  figure  vanished  behind 
the  curve  of  the  road.  Professor  Burton 
withdrew  to  his  study  and  quietly  locked 
the  door. 


68 


The  Giant's  Strength. 


69 


The  Giant's  Strength. 


IT  WAS  only  an  hour  since  he  had  quitted 
his  study,  and  yet  his  whole  world  had 
changed — his  pleasant,  familiar  world, 
in  which  he  had  been  so  content  until  she 
had  crossed  his  path.  The  shelves  of  books 
extending  around  the  walls,  whose  friendly 
fellowship  he  had  known  so  well,  still  wel- 
comed him,  but  with  a  difference.  He  half- 
fancied  a  subtle  reproach  in  their  compact 
and  glittering  ranks,  as  if  they  were  say- 
ing: "You  deserted  us  for  the  valueless 
smile  of  a  coquette,  but  we  have  remained 
faithful  to  you." 

Whither  into  the  Unknown  had  vanished 

the   delightful   fascination   that   life   had 

hitherto  held  for  him?  About  him  were  the 

same  dear  surroundings,  so  well  known, 

71 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

and  yet  now  so  strangely  unfamiliar,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  sudden  intuition,  he 
knew  that  the  man  who  was  sitting  in 
his  accustomed  chair  before  his  study  table 
differed  essentially  and  irrevocably  from 
the  outwardly  similar  man  who  had  occu- 
pied the  same  position  only  an  hour  before. 
A  trim  maid  fetched  his  mail,  and  he 
glanced  at  the  superscriptions,  ^^Dr.  Hamil- 
ton Bradford,  Fairview  University,  Fair- 
view,  Penn.,''  with  the  casual  regard  of  a 
stranger,  and  then  he  threw  them  aside  un- 
opened. Where  was  this  Hamilton  Brad- 
ford, for  whose  attention  five  letters  were 
silently  petitioning?  Sixty  minutes  ago  he 
had  existed,  a  man,  young,  eager,  full  of 
hope  and  ardent  enthusiasm;  now  he  was 
merely  a  cipher,  a  meaningless  identity, 
robbed  of  the  sweet  significance  of  life.  He 
glanced  about  the  room  at  his  Lares  and 
Penates  in  a  vague,  helpless  fashion,  and 
dimly  realized  that  the  old  comfort  they 
had  possessed  for  him  was  gone  forever, 
and  a  fire  of  sudden  anger  flashed  across 

n 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

the  dead  ashes  of  his  consciousness.  By 
what  right  had  she  entered  his  peaceful 
life,  and  taken  away  its  sweetness?  Surely, 
it  would  have  been  more  gracious,  more 
courteous,  to  have  forborne  to  use  the 
giant's  strength.  He  was  so  defenseless 
against  her  power  that  she  might  well  have 
allowed  the  gentle  dew  of  compassion  to 
fall  upon  him  and  balm  his  wound,  but 
even  this  she  had  denied  him.  She  need  not 
reproach  herself  that  the  minutest  portion 
of  her  triumph  had  escaped  her;  on  the  con- 
trary, the  conquest  had  been  pathetically 
complete. 

He  rested  his  head  upon  his  folded  arms, 
and  lived  the  past  month  over  again.  He 
recalled  with  photographic  distinctness 
their  first  meeting.  She  was  walking  down 
the  Campus  with  the  venerable  President, 
whose  guest  she  was,  a.nd,  as  they  met,  her 
gay,  inscrutable  eyes  looked  at  him  in  that 
brief  moment  as  no  woman's  eyes  had  ever 
looked  at  him  before;  they  had  haunted 
him — those  dark,  strange,  beautiful  eyes, 
73 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

and  had  seriously  interfered  with  a  mono- 
graph on  the  enclitic  which  he  was  w^riting 
for  a  journal  of  philology.  There  was  some- 
thing terrible  to  him  even  then  in  their  bril- 
liant magniflcencejbut  that  swift  glance  re- 
vealed a  new  and  enchanted  world  to  him, 
and  he  passed  on  like  one  in  a  dream.  In 
some  curiously  inexplicable  fashion  he 
found  himself  involved  in  a  series  of  col- 
lege festivities,  in  which  she  was  the  cen- 
tral figure,  about  whom  the  rest  of  the 
world  seemed  but  a  confused  mass  of  shad- 
ows. She  had  seemed  to  like  him,  too;  she 
had  shown  a  real  interest  in  the  enclitic, 
and  had  even  begged  him  to  teach  her 
Greek,  and  through  it  all  she  had  smiled 
upon  him  with  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
those  mysterious,  dark  eyes.  He  was  un- 
used to  women  and  their  ways,  and  ac- 
knowledged humbly  that  he  had  no  defense 
against  her,  but  had  fallen  into  her  toils,  a 
pitifully  easy  prey. 

Well,  it  was  at  an  end,  and  there  was 
nothing  now  left  but  to  test,  for  her  sake, 
74 


The  Giant^s  Strength. 

the  quality  of  his  manhood.  She  had  taken 
the  savor  out  of  his  life,  but  yet  he  was  no 
coward.  .  .  .  How  benignantly  the  sun 
had  shone  that  afternoon,  and  how  anxious- 
ly he  had  watched  the  weather  for  days,  so 
greatly  had  he  feared  lest  it  might  rain,  and 
thus  spoil  their  last  walk  together.  But 
Nature  had  befriended  him,  and  had  sent 
her  sun  to  shine  upon  them,  and  had  spread 
a  dainty  carpet  of  young  violets  and  tender 
grass  before  their  leisurely  feet.  It  had  in- 
deed been  a  royal  day,  a  day  of  days  on 
which  to  ask  her  the  question  that  had  been 
trembling  secretly  in  his  heart  so  long.  He 
remembered  only  in  an  indefinte  fashion 
how  he  had  told  her  how  very  dear  she  had 
become  to  him,  but  he  recalled  with  burn- 
ing distinctness  that  she  had  laughed  light- 
ly, and  had  asked  him  whether  he  were 
quite  sure  that  he  was  not  mistaking  her 
for  the  enclitic;  and  on  the  wings  of  that 
light  and  heartless  laugh  happiness  took 
flight  out  of  his  life  forever.  Her  gay, 
amused  eyes  had  looked  at  him  with  smil- 
75 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

ing  indifference.  "Are  you  sure  yourself 
you  care?"  she  had  said^  "for  the  enclitic  is 
a  deadly  rival,  and  I  distrust  it.'' 


There  was  no  longer  a  fire  upon  the  wide 
hearth,  since  it  was  now  early  June,  but  in 
its  stead  a  portly  jar  of  roses,  that  filled  the 
dainty  apartment  with  a  faint  fragrance. 
Miss  Van  Horn  stood  before  the  fireplace, 
gazing  reflectively  into  the  flaming  heart  of 
the  red  roses.  She  was  in  evening  toilette, 
and  the  glass  above  the  shelf  gave  back 
faithfully  the  exquisite  beauty  of  her  face 
and  throat,  but  for  the  once,  a  very  unusual 
one,  she  was  not  regarding  her  counterfeit 
loveliness. 

"It  was  his  first  experience,"  she  told  the 
roses.  "I  am  quite  sure  it  was  his  first  ex- 
perience. There  is  something  sad  about  the 
first  experience  of  a  man  of  his  age." 

Again  she  was  back  in  the  golden-green 
afternoon  with  this  handsome  young  profes- 
sor of  Greek.  She  remembered  the  expres- 
?6 


'  ''^iW^^WI^'i^fm'''i 


^'^■'-H-  ^^'Z  r^i^^^  _ 

Pas^i'^^  ^^'■'  "°'"'  ^™°''  ^'"'°''^  """^  Fireplace." 


..         Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

sion  of  his  frank  face,  and  sighed.  "Poor 
fellow,  he  really  seemed  to  take  it  hard,  but 
no  doubt  the  Digamma  has  consoled  him 
by  this  time;  that  is  the  beauty  of  the  high- 
er education,  it  offers  a  consolation  for 
every  wound — or,  at  least,  we  are  expected 
to  believe  it  does.  .  .  .  Really,  in  its 
way,  it  was  quite  an  artistic  triumf)h — that 
flirtation.  I  should  have  been  more  than 
human  to  let  such  a  distinct  challenge  pass 
unnoticed.  And,  then,  the  gentle  hermit, 
with  his  good  looks  and  brilliant  reputa- 
tion, piqued  me." 

She  drew  the  long  folds  of  her  white 
cloak  about  her  charming  figure,  and  de- 
scended the  staircase  to  the  waiting  car- 
riage. 

"I  wonder  whether  he  will  be  there,"  she 
said  to  herself;  "he  knows  I  am  leaving  to- 
morrow. If  he  comes,  will  he  cut  his  dances 
with  me?"  and  she  wasted  a  smile  and  a 
blush  in  the  soft  gloom  of  the  carriage, 
where  there  was  no  one  to  see. 
77 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

The  Commencement  ball  of  the  class  of 
'90  at  Fairview  University  was  a  brilliant 
success  in  the  annals  of  that  institution. 
The  big  gymnasium  had  been  gaily  deco- 
rated with  the  college  colors,  and  the  vari- 
ous trophies  won  by  college  champions  on 
the  hard-fought  field.  The  buoyant  Senior, 
conscious  of  the  admiring  presence  of  rela- 
tives and  friends,  was  holding  high  carnival 
for  the  last  time  as  an  undergraduate.  The 
music  was  all  that  could  be  desired;  the 
floor  waxed  to  the  final  degree  of  perfec- 
tion; youth,  beauty  and  clouds  of  adoring 
incense  surrounded  him,  and  the  Senior's 
cup  of  joy  was  full  to  the  brim. 

But  the  gayest  dancer  of  all,  and  the  one 
most  frequently  upon  the  floor,  was  Pro- 
fessor Bradford  of  the  department  of  Greek. 
He  had  left  his  eyeglasses  upon  his  study 
table,  in  company  with  the  monograph,  and 
it  was  difficult  to  recognize  in  the  gallant 
young  Launcelot  of  the  ball-room  the  grave- 
faced  professor  of  the  University.  People 
gazed  at  him  in  fascinated  astonishment  as 
78 


The  Giant's  Strength. 

he  lent  himself  to  the  charm  of  the  moment, 
and  whispered  brilliant  nothings  into  the 
wondering  ears  of  his  partners.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  thoroughly  amazing  himself,  but 
the  tall  and  beautiful  girl,  who  stood  wait- 
ing for  him  to  claim  his  dance  with  her, 
was  startled  out  of  her  accustomed  compo- 
sure by  his  unexpected  behavior.  She 
watched  his  dazzling  career  with  a  sudden, 
sad  self-knowledge  and  pain. 

"Our  waltz,  I  believe,"  he  said,  careless- 
ly, putting  his  arm  lightly  but  firmly  about 
her  waist,  and  guiding  her  skilfully  down 
the  crowded  room.  He  danced  well,  and  he 
was  telling  her  an  amusing  story  of  his  life 
in  Europe,  but  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
The  brilliant  apartment,  with  its  gay,  re- 
volving couples,  became  a  confused  mass 
of  color.  The  young  man's  words  fell  upon 
her  ears  in  a  meaningless  murmur. 

"Let  us  stop,"   she   said,   imperatively, 

breathlessly.    He  obeyed  her  instantly,  and 

together  they  sauntered  out  into  one  of  the 

dim,  cool  recesses  of  the  hall.    It  was  a  de- 

79 


The  Giant^s  Strength. 

serted  little  retreat,  for  the  night  was  yet 
young,  and  the  orchestra  was  playing  a 
favorite  valse.  The  dim,  variously  colored 
lamps  threw  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and 
grasses  which  decorated  the  corner  upon 
the  floor  at  their  feet.  It  reminded  him  of 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  previous 
afternoon,  which  now  seemed  centuries  re- 
moved. She  had  withdrawn  her  hand  from 
his  arm,  and  stood  before  him,  radiantly 
beautiful  in  her  glittering,  white  ball- 
gown. 

"  How  worth 
That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize. 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 
For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize." 

Their  eyes  met — his,  handsome,  smiling 
and  courteous;  hers,  dark  and  magnificent 
as  ever,  but  no  longer  inscrutable;  there 
w^as  a  soft  and  tender  light  in  their  ex- 
quisite depths.  With  absolute  unreserve 
she  stood  for  an  instant,  looking  full  in  his 
face. 

"At  last,'^  she  whispered,  with  a  smile  of 
80 


The  Gianf  s  Strength. 

utter  self-revelation  and  surrender,  "you 
have  taught  me  how  to  love.'' 

He  regarded  her  for  an  instant,  with  a 
grave  and  dignified  composure. 

"And  you,"  he  said,  regretfully,  "have 
taught  me  only  how  to  flirt.'' 


81 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 


83 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 


LOIS  paused  a  moment  before  the 
closed  door  of  the  dining-room.  She 
stood  outside  in  the  dimly  lit  cor- 
ridor, with  a  loud-beating  heart,  listening 
to  the  rattle  of  dishes  and  the  hum  of 
myriad  voices,  and  then,  summoning  her 
courage  by  a  mighty  effort,  opened  the  door 
and  walked  calmly  down  the  double  row 
of  tables  to  her  seat  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room.  Everyone  instinctively  glanced  up  at 
her  entrance,  for  soup  had  just  been  served, 
and  she  was  undeniably  late;  then  everyone 
glanced  away  again  carelessly,  for  Lois  was 
an  unimportant  factor  in  college  life,  being 
a  teacher-special,  with  no  hope  of  a  de- 
gree at  the  end  of  her  scholastic  labors. 
She  sank  wearily  into  her  place,  wondering 
86 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

why  she  had  not  had  sufficient  presence  of 
mind  to  feign  a  headache,  and  thus  spare 
herself  the  tedious  ordeal  of  dining. 

Her  general  salutation  was  returned  civ- 
illy by  the  various  persons  about  the  table, 
and  then  the  waiter  placed  a  plate  of  smok- 
ing soup  before  her.  He  was  a  raw  recruit, 
in  the  shape  of  a  Freshman  working  his 
way  through  college,  and  he  invariably  al- 
lowed his  thumb  to  wander  investigatingly 
amidst  the  contents  of  whatever  dish  he 
happened  to  serve. 

^^None  genuine  without  Baker's  trade- 
mark," said  Stanleigh,  jocosely,  as  the 
Freshman  brought  Miss  Baxter's  plate 
smartly  upon  the  table,  leaving  a  photo- 
graphic imprint  of  his  thumb  upon  its  edge. 
Lois  smiled  gratefully  across  at  the  young 
student,  who  had  made  the  blunt  remark. 
It  gave  her  an  excellent  excuse  for  refusing 
soup,  and  as  for  Baker's  omnipresent 
thumb,  she  had  not  even  noticed  that  he 
possessed  one.  It  was  difficult  to  eat  when 
her  mind  was  in  such  chaos,  and  so  many 
86 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

sharp  and  inquisitive  eyes  were  bent  intel- 
ligently upon  her. 

"Baker  would  better  mend  his  methods," 
remarked  Professor  Butler,  severely.  "He 
has  just  left  a  chicken  bone  in  Miss  Far- 
ley's lap.  She  doesn't  know  it  yet,  but  1 
watched  its  flight  a  moment  since,  when  he 
was  taking  her  plate.  Sometimes  I  think 
he's  an  Anarchist,  and  does  it  on  purpose, 
in  order  to  even  up  things.  He  is  taking 
my  lectures,  and  I  notice  he  always  serves 
me  last." 

A  mild  ripple  of  appreciative  merriment 
followed  this  remark. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Herr  von 
Arnheim,  Miss  Baxter?"  put  in  Mrs.  Butler, 
tactfully.  "I  saw  you  setting  out  for  a 
walk  after  lunch,  and  he  hasn't  been  seen 
since." 

Lois  felt  the  swift  crimson  rush  painfully 
into  her  cheeks,  and  the  knowledge  of  this 
fact  increased  her  embarrassment. 

"Herr  von  Arnheim?"   she  stammered. 

87 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

"Has  he  not  returned,  then?  I  haven't  seen 
him  since  three  o'clock." 

Her  visible  discomfiture  caused  every 
person  at  the  table  to  glance  sharply  at  her, 
and  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a 
tall,  blond  young  fellow  came  briskly  down 
the  room  and  took  the  vacant  seat  beside 
Lois.  She  felt  the  betraying  crimson  deep- 
en detestably  in  her  cheeks,  and  kept  her 
eyes  upon  the  unlucky  soup-plate  as  she 
responded  faintly  to  his  greeting. 

"We  were  just  wondering  where  you 
were,  Herr  von  Arnheim,"  struck  in  the 
sharp,  inquisitive  tones  of  Mrs.  Butler, 
"and  I  have  just  been  accusing  Miss  Baxter 
of  making  away  with  you." 

"Making  away  with  me?"  questioned  the 
young  German,  in  evident  perplexity.  "Oh, 
I  see — running  off  with  me.  I  only  wish 
she  would." 

"I  consider  that  an  honorable  proposal. 

Miss  Baxter,"  went  on  Mrs.  Butler,  in  high 

glee,  while  Lois  sat  in  red,  silent  misery, 

wondering  how  long  her  endurance  could 

88 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

hold  out,  and  feverishly  telling  herself  that 
she  must  not  break  down  and  betray  her- 
self. 

Dinner  usually  lasted  an  hour,  for  Manor 
Hall  dined  better  than  it  was  served,  and 
only  twenty  minutes  of  torture  were  over. 

The  house  was  a  quaint,  rambling  old 
mansion,  which  had  seen  sumptuous  Colon- 
ial days  before  it  had  fallen  from  its  high 
estate  to  become  the  most  fashionable 
boarding-house  in  Fairview.  Even  in  its 
decline  its  "tone"  was  unimpeachably  aris- 
tocratic; not  only  were  its  prices  exorbitant 
enough  to  exclude  the  undesirably  poor,  but 
satisfying  references  were  required  before 
one  was  allowed  the  privilege  of  paying 
twice  the  value  of  his  accommodation. 
Thus  the  clientele  of  Manor  Hall  was  se- 
curely satisfactory  and  beyond  reproach. 

"There's  certainly  something  between 
Miss  Baxter  and  Herr  von  Arnheim,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Butler  to  her  husband. 
"They've  scarcely  spoken  to  each  other,  and 
they've  both  got  such  a  queer  expression.  It 
89 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

doesn't  seem  possible  that  there  could  be 
anything  between  them  at  her  age.  She 
is  years  older  than  he  is,  poor  boy.  But 
there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,  you  know." 

These  words  spoken  in  Mrs.  Butler's  thin, 
penetrating  whisper  traveled  across  the 
table,  and  forced  themselves  into  Lois'  in- 
dignant ear.  She  forgot  all  about  her  brave 
show  of  indifference,  her  heroic  attempts 
to  deceive  her  fellow-lodgers  into  the  belief 
that  she  was  dining,  and,  rising  with  a 
murmured,  inarticulate  apology,  hastily 
left  the  room. 

"I  fear  Miss  Baxter  is  not  feeling  well,'^ 
commented  Mrs.  Butler,  with  an  innocent 
air.  "I  must  call  at  her  room  after  dinner. 
Perhaps  I  may  be  of  some  service  to  her." 

Von  Arnheim  swore  imperceptibly  below 
his  breath,  and  calmly  continued  his  din- 
ner. 

In  the  safe  solitude  of  her  own  room,  Lois 

lost  no  time  in  making  ready  to  go  to  bed. 

Not  that  she  expected  to  sleep;  she  knew 

only  too  well  just  how  those  long,  dark 

90 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

hours  before  her  would  be  spent,  but  a  re- 
treat to  bed  was  the  only  possible  precau- 
tion against  interruption,  and  even  this  ex- 
treme measure  had  been  known  to  fail. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  toilet- 
glass,  brushing  out  the  thick,  dark  splendor 
of  her  hair,  which,  in  spite  of  her  forty-two 
years,  showed  not  a  single  thread  of  silver 
in  its  soft  masses.  A  handsome  woman  in 
the  prime  of  middle  life,  with  large,  dark 
eyes,  full  of  a  certain,  soft,  sympathetic  in- 
telligence, which  made  them  remembered 
long  after  more  beautiful  eyes  were  forgot- 
ten. A  slender,  tall,  energetic  woman, 
with  an  expression  about  her  thin,  mobile 
lips  which  won  confidence,  and  told  of  un- 
usual strength  of  character.  A  woman 
whose  previous  career,  she  told  herself, 
would  never  justify  her  present  erratic  be- 
havior. 

She  turned  out  the  gas  quickly,  and  crept 
into  bed.    She  was  not  an  instant  too  soon. 
A  sharp,  decisive  rap  came  upon  her  door, 
91 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

followed  by  a  second,  even  more  energetic 
one.     Then — 

^^Miss  Baxter,  are  you  ill?  Can  I  be  of 
any  assistance?"  came  in  Mrs.  Butler's 
sharp,  imperative  voice. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  she  was  compelled  to 
say  through  the  closed  door.  "I  am  merely 
tired  and  have  a  headache.  I  shall  be  quite 
right  in  the  morning,  thank  you." 

There  would  be  another  attack  upon  her 
door,  she  reflected,  sadly,  before  the  night 
might  be  certainly  her  own,  and  then  the 
rest  of  the  fifty  persons  in  the  house  prob- 
ably would  leave  her  in  peace.  She  became 
aware  of  stealthy  footsteps  creeping  along 
the  corridor,  and  the  crisp  rattle  of  a  bit  of 
paper  thrust  beneath  her  door,  and  the  sur- 
prised tones  of  Mrs.  Butler  as  she  discov- 
ered Von  Arnheim  in  the  passage. 

"Going  to  read  German  with  Miss  Bax- 
ter this  evening?  You're  too  late.  She  has 
gone  to  bed  with  a  bad  headache  ..." 
and  then  the  footsteps  and  voices  died 
away. 

92 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

Left  alone  at  last,  Lois  began  to  specu- 
late, drearily,  upon  the  Destiny  which  had 
thrown  her  into  her  present  position,  and 
to  try  to  extricate  herself,  if  possible.  It 
was  absurd,  monstrous,  that  a  sensible, 
middle-aged  woman  should  have  fallen 
madly  in  love  with  a  lad  just  twenty  years 
her  junior.  When  she  had  been  twenty,  he 
had  not  even  existed.  Before  his  existence 
she  had  been  considering  marrying  John 
Barlow,  who  was  now  a  respectable,  mid- 
dle-aged mayor  of  a  Western  town;  had  she 
married  John,  she  wondered  whether  she 
could  have  fallen  into  her  present  senseless 
predicament.  But  this  was  an  airy  specu- 
lation intended  for  a  lighter  moment;  what 
concerned  her  now  was  the  truth.  She  was 
not  one  of  those  women  to  ignore  the  skel- 
eton in  her  closet,  but  was  accustomed  to 
deal  with  herself  with  frank  unreserve. 
Had  any  other  woman  been  in  a  like  case, 
she  acknowledged,  honestly,  that  she 
would  have  condemned  her  as  an  enemy  to 
society.  She  tried  to  put  herself  for  a  mo- 
93 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

ment  in  the  place  of  Von  Amheim's  moth- 
er, a  position,  she  reflected,  sadly,  she 
might  very  appropriately  assume.  What 
would  her  thoughts  then  be  toward  a  wom- 
an of  her  own  age  who  intended  marrying 
her  only  child?  Simply  murderous!  But  un- 
derneath the  strenuous  effort  of  renuncia- 
tion floated  the  recollection  of  his  dear  per- 
sonality, which  in  so  mysterious  a  way 
had  become  part  of  herself.  Why  had  Des- 
tiny played  so  cynical  a  joke  upon  her? 
She  felt  conscious  that  she  did  not  quite 
deserve  it.  If  a  pair  of  beautiful,  dark-blue 
eyes  must  haunt  her  constantly,  and  the 
touch  of  a  certain  slender,  artist-hand  have 
power  to  thrill  her,  and  to  lend  the  com- 
mon-place world  a  splendid  fascination  she 
had  never  discovered  in  it  before,  why 
might  not  these  qualities  have  been  be- 
stowed upon  one  of  the  modest  and  suitable 
list  of  lovers  who  had  variegated  her  pre- 
vious existence? 

There  was  but  one  recompense  she  might 
offer  him  in  return  for  the  sacrifice  he 
94 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

urged  upon  her,  provided  she  proved  weak 
enough  to  listen  to  his  pleading.  The 
money  which  a  wealthy  relative  unexpect- 
edly had  bequeathed  her  would  suffice  to 
rescue  his  ancestral  estates,  and  permit 
him  to  live  as  his  rank  demanded.  She  was 
the  sole  person  in  the  United  States  who 
knew  that  he  was  a  Count,  possessing  vast 
estates  in  Prussia,  which  were  heavily  em- 
barrassed. However,  she  dismissed  this 
solution  as  altogether  too  sordid  an  ex- 
change for  his  bright,  boyish  years.  There 
was  but  one  way  by  which  she  might  help 
them  both  now,  and  that  was  to  disappear 
quietly,  and  never  darken  his  youth  again 
by  her  presence.  Having  decided  to  re- 
nounce him  utterly,  she  crept  softly  out  of 
bed  and  drew  the  note  from  beneath  her 
door.  By  the  flickering  flame  of  a  wax- 
light,  she  read  the  foreign  scrawl. 

^^You   were   too   abrupt   with   me,    my 
friend,"  it  ran — "You  do  not  permit  me  to 
explain  you.    To-morrow  I  shall  be  at  the 
95 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

same  place  at  the  same  hour  .  .  .  and  you 
must  let  me  explain  you."  ^ 

Very  well,  his  explanation  need  not  alter 
her  renunciation,  and  the  temptation  was 
too  great  to  be  resisted. 


Only  the  secret-keeping  gods  know  just 
why  Mrs.  Butler  chose  Washington  Park 
for  a  solitary  ramble  on  the  following  day, 
but,  suddenly,  as  she  was  skirting  a  bosky 
glen,  somewhat  removed  from  the  public 
paths,  she  came  full  upon  Miss  Baxter  and 
Herr  von  Arnheim,  sitting  side  by  side,  on 
a  bank  of  ferns,  apparently  quite  oblivious 
to  everything  and  everybody.  At  first,  she 
told  the  Professor  later,  she  was  in  doubt 
as  to  what  she  ought  to  do.  To  retreat  or 
advance  would  be  to  put  them  both  in  an 
awkward  situation,  so  she  solved  the  diffi- 
culty by  ensconcing  herself  behind  a  large 
tree,  where  she  was  completely  hidden 
from  detection.  However,  they  were  so 
near  her  that  she  found  it  quite  unavoid- 
96 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

able  not  to  listen  to  their  conversation, 
which  she  did  most  reluctantly. 

"I  shall  convince  you  yet/'  said  Von  Arn- 
heim,  triumphantly.  ^^Age?  What  is  age? 
It  is  a  mere  incident — how  do  you  call  it? 
An  accident.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
facts,  which  are  that  I  love  you — and  you 
love  me,  Lois." 

"Indeed,  Otto,  I  do  love  you/'  said  poor 
Lois,  "and  that  is  why  I  cannot  let  you  ruin 
yourself." 

"You  do  not  love  me  if  you  can  refuse 
me,"  said  the  boy,  passionately.  "What  is 
all  the  world  to  me  without  you?  You  are 
my  sun,  my  moon,  my  stars,  my  life  itself. 
And  yet  you  would  rob  me  of  my  inherit- 
ance. No,  Lois,  you  cannot  really  love  me, 
or  you  could  not  be  so  cruel." 

At  this  juncture  Mrs.  Butler  w^as  unable 
to  see  what  was  going  forward,  but  she 
conjectured  that  the  young  Count  took 
Miss  Baxter  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
She  also  had  the  vague  impression  of  hav- 
ing heard  him  whisper  that  he  would  never 
97 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

let  her  go  away  from  him  again.  However, 
later  she  saw  him  striding  angrily  away, 
with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes. 
After  a  decent  interval,  she  strolled  care- 
lessly along  past  the  meditative  figure  of 
Miss  Baxter. 

^"I  said  I  was  so  pleased  to  have  found 
her,"  she  told  her  husband,  in  artless  narra- 
tive, ^^it  was  so  very  lonely  walking  about 
all  by  oneself,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  did 
not  find  it  so,  for  I  would  not  have  had  her 
suspect  for  worlds  that  I  had  seen  Von 
Arnheim.  She  rather  evaded  the  question, 
but  seemed  glad  to  see  me,  and  we  started 
on  together  through  the  forest  path  home. 
She  asked  me  to  give  her  my  arm,  and 
seemed  rather  trembling  at  first,  which  is 
so  unlike  Miss  Baxter,  you  know;  she's  so 
strong-minded.  She  asked  me  earnestly 
what  opinion  I  would  have  of  a  woman  who 
married  a  man  young  enough  to  be  her  own 
son,  and  I  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  tell 
her  most  emphatically  how  wrong  and  ter- 
rible I  thought  such  a  thing  would  be — 
98 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

that  it  would  ruin  both  their  lives,  and  be 
a  matter  of  endless  regret;  in  fact,  that  it 
would  be  a  crime.  I  put  it  as  strongly  as  1 
knew  how'' — here  the  Professor  smiled, 
grimly — "and  I  flatter  myself  I  convinced 
her.  But  we  shall  see  at  dinner  from  her 
behavior  to  Herr  von  Arnheim." 

But  that  evening  no  critical  eyes  had  the 
pleasure  of  dissecting  Miss  Baxter,  for  be- 
fore Baker  had  served  the  coffee  all  the 
boarders  knew  that  Miss  Baxter  had  de~ 
parted  suddenly  for  parts  unknown,  leav- 
ing no  trace  of  her  whereabouts. 

"She  could  leave  in  mid-term  better  than 
most  of  the  co-eds,"  commented  Mrs.  But- 
ler, "because,  after  all,  she  was  only  a 
teacher-special,  and  not  eligible  for  a  de- 
gree." 

"It  was  the  dream  of  her  life,"  said  Von 
Arnheim,  suddenly,  glancing  up  from  ab- 
sorbed contemplation  of  his  plate,  "her 
great  ambition  to  finish  Professor  Butler's 
course  in  English  literature.  She  will  be 
heart-broken  at  having  missed  it." 
99 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

^^But  she  was  only  a  middle-aged  West- 
ern school  ma'am  until  her  cousin's  death 
left  her  rich,"  went  on  Mrs.  Butler.  ^'Of 
course,  her  ambition  is  commendable,  but 
we  must  not  expect  her  to  rank  with  these 
young  college  women,  who  are  trained  spe- 
cialists." 

^^Her  w^ork  was  always  most  acceptable," 
put  in  Professor  Butler.  ^'In  fact,  she  had 
a  certain  clearness  and  maturity  of  mind 
which  gave  her  a  decided  advantage  over 
some  of  our  trained  college  women." 

Von  Arnheim  cast  a  grateful  glance  at 
the  benignant  Professor,  and  then  returned 
to  a  prolonged  contemplation  of  his  plate. 
At  the  end  of  a  week  he  also  disappeared, 
and  his  rooms  becoming  immediately  re- 
rented,  his  memory  became  as  vague  as 
that  of  poor  Miss  Baxter  at  Manor  Hall. 
Three  weeks  afterward  Mrs.  Butler  took 
the  trouble  to  travel  across  the  Campus  to 
her  husband's  lecture  room.  She  thrust  a 
newspaper  triumphantly  into  his  hand. 

^^I  knew  she  would  do  it,"  she  said,  vic- 
100 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

toriously,  gloating  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
read  this  announcement: 


VON  ARNHEIM-BAXTER.  On  the  third 
of  September,  at  the  Rectory  of  Grace 
Church,  New  York,  Lois  Amelia,  only 
daughter  of  the  late  John  and  Mary 
Baxter,  to  Otto  Karl  Hugo,  Count  von 
Arnheim,  of  Arnheim,  Prussia.  No 
cards. 


"They  would  better  have  said:  ^Friends 
are  kindly  requested  not  to  send  flowers/  '■ 
remarked  Mrs.  Butler,  as  her  husband  fin- 
ished the  paragraph.  "I  call  it  infanti- 
cide." 

"I  always  liked  Miss  Baxter/'  said  the 
Professor,  mildly.  "I  hope  they  may  be 
happy,  and  never  regret  it.'' 

The  Von  Arnheims  had  leased  a  tiny  fur- 
nished house  belonging  to  an  artist,  who 
had  gone  back  to  his  beloved  Latin  Quarter 
for  further  study,  and  here  in  this  little, 
weather-stained  cottage,  built  out  into  the 
blue  waters  of  Long  Island  Sound,  they  were 
spending  the  first  year  of  their  married  life. 
101 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Ba  ter. 

It  seemed  easier  to  ignore  those  inexorable 
twenty  years  which  separated  them,  when 
they  watched  the  sunsets  together,  or  sailed 
out  toward  the  purple  outlines  of  Long  Isl- 
and lying  peacefully  against  the  distant 
horizon.  More  than  a  year  of  delightful 
idling  thus  passed  away.  One  evening  Lois 
was  pouring  tea,  as  usual,  in  the  bay  win- 
dow of  the  tiny  drawing-room,  which 
looked  directly  out  upon  the  sunset.  It  was 
early  October,  and  the  sea  and  sky  were 
brilliant  with  autumn  colors,  crimson  and 
gold  and  vivid  blue.  The  distant  spires  and 
roofs  of  the  neighboring  village  stood 
etched  in  sharp  black  relief  against  the 
opalescent  sky.  Long  lines  of  crimson  lay 
trembling  upon  the  breast  of  the  blue 
water,  whose  murmuring  stole  echoingly 
through  the  silence. 

The  Count  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  at 
Lois'  feet,  leaning  affectionately  against 
her,  as  he  looked  out,  dreamily,  at  the 
changing  sunset. 

"I'm  in  a  Heinesque  mood,"  he  said,  smil- 
102 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

ing  up  at  her.  "I  always  am  when  I  look 
upon  the  sea  and  sunset.  Do  you  remem- 
ber: 

*  Wer  zum  ersten  male  liebt, 
Seis  auch  glucklos,  ist  ein  Gott ; 
Aber  wer  zum  zweiten  male 
Glucklos  liebt,  der  ist  ein  Narr. 

*  Ich,  ein  solcher  Narr,  ich  liebe 
Wieder  ohne  Gegenliebe ; 
Sonne,  Mond  und  Sterne  lachen, 
Und  ich  lache  nait — und  sterbe.'  " 

^^I  always  liked  Black's  translation  of 
that/'  said  Lois,  "do  you  know  it?'^ 

*  Who  loves  a  first  time  is  a  god 
Though  he  should  be  forsaken, 
Who,  hapless,  loves  a  second  time. 
Must  for  a  fool  be  taken. 

And  such  a  fool  who  loves  without 
Response  of  love  am  I ; 
Sun,  moon  and  stars,  they  laugh  at  me, 
And  I  laugh,  too — and  die.'  " 

The  sunset  was  growing  momentarily 
brighter,  the  strange  brightness  which  pre- 
cedes its  vanishing. 

103 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

"And  I  laugh,  too — and  die/"  said  Lois, 
reflectively.  "After  all,  that  is  the  best 
way;  a  merry  laugh  like  the  sunset  there, 
and  then  the  oblivion  of  death.  L'homme 
qui  rit  is  the  greatest  philosopher  in  the 
world.  Otto,"  with  a  sudden  change  from 
jest  to  earnestness,  "tell  me  why  you  ever 
fell  in  love  with  me?'' 

"I  should  have  said  we  had  threshed  out 
that  subject  already  rather  well/'  answered 
the  young  man,  mischievously,  "but  if  you 
are  really  serious  in  wishing  to  learn  what 
first  drew  me  to  you,  it  was  because  you 
were  so  kind." 

"Kind?"  echoed  Lois. 

"Kind,"  affirmed  he.  "Do  you  remember 
that  first  evening  at  Manor  Hall?  You 
were  the  only  one  who  did  not  laugh  at  my 
mistakes,  and,  naturally,  I  was  grateful. 
Afterward,  you  were  so  good  to  teach  me 
English — and,  then,  dear,  you  were  just 
yourself;  just  you,  and  that  seemed  to  me 
sufficient  excuse  to  love  you.  Now,  tell  me 
why  you  ever  loved  me." 
104 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

"Oh,  Vve  always  loved  you/'  she  answered 
him,  tenderly,  "even  long  before  I  ever  even 
saw  you." 

"But  why  did  you  refuse  me  so  many 
times,  Lois,  only  to  send  for  me  at  the  end, 
after  I  had  really  given  up  all  hope.  It  w^as 
the  only  occasion  on  which  I  have  known 
you  capricious." 

The  dark  eyes  watching  the  glorious, 
golden  beauty  of  the  sunset,  already  begin- 
ning to  fade  away  upon  the  distant  horizon, 
contracted  with  swift  pain,  and  her  cheeks 
grew  suddenly  pale. 

"I  remember  I  said  good-bye  to  you  for 
ever,  didn't  I?"  she  asked,  attempting  to 
smile. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  young  fellow,  truthful- 
ly, lifting  his  blue  eyes  to  her  face,  "but  T 
didn't  mind  when  the  fact  differed  from  the 
decision." 

Lois  continued  to  regard  the  gay  sunset 
colors  as  they  rapidly  merged  into  the  gray 
shadows  of  the  night.  The  evening  star  be- 
gan to  show  itself  amidst  the  ruddy  gold. 
105 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

At  length  she  began  speaking  with  a  vis- 
ible effort. 

^^I  should  never  have  altered  my  deci- 
sion/' she  said,  "if  it  had  not  been  for  one 
thing.  When  I  left  Manor  Hall  that  night. 
Otto,  I  was  so  wretched  that  death  would 
have  seemed  the  best  good  in  the  world.  In- 
deed, such  dreadful  pains  went  through  my 
heart  that  I  felt  sure  I  had  not  long  to  live. 
I  consulted  Dr.  Graham,  of  New  York,  the 
famous  specialist,  you  know,  and  he  told 
me  I  had  but  a  year  to  live;  perhaps,  not 
that  .  .  .  and  so  I  thought  .  .  .  since  we 
both  really  loved  each  other  ...  it 
mightn't  be  so  very  wrong  ...  a  year  is 
so  short  to  be  happy  in  .  .  .  and  happi- 
ness seemed  to  me  the  best  thing  ..." 

The  sunset  colors  had  faded  suddenly 
away  into  the  waste  of  grey  waters.  Here 
and  there  lights  began  to  show  softly  along 
the  shore.  The  red  lamp  of  the  light-house 
on  the  Point  opened  its  cheerful  eye.  The 
little,  white-sailed  oyster-boats  were  all 
coming  home  across  the  darkening  water. 
106 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

The  yellow  lights  of  an  important,  fussy 
steam-tug  flashed,  jewel-like,  across  the 
shadows. 

^^I  have  lived  already  three  months  long- 
er than  I  had  dared  hope,"  went  on  Lois, 
more  calmly,  "and  for  that  I  am  grateful. 
It  makes  me  feel  as  if  our  happiness — and 
we  have  been  happy,  have  we  not.  Otto? — 
were  not  so  wrong  after  all.  We  have  had 
our  year,  our  dear,  glad  year,  and  you  are 
still  young,  with  all  life  before  you,  and  I 
have  not  brought  harm  upon  you,  as  I 
should  have  done  had  it  been  otherwise." 

The  sunset  having  vanished,  it  was  too 
dark  to  read  the  expression  on  his  face, 
which  had  suddenly  grown  as  gray  as  the 
evening  shadows  outside,  but  he  merely  re- 
mained affectionately  leaning  against  her, 
as  he  had  done  so  many  joyous  evenings 
before,  and  no  sound  broke  the  intense  si- 
lence about  them. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  later,  Mrs.  But- 
ler rushed   into   her   husband's   dressing- 
107 


The  Crime  of  Lois  Baxter. 

room,  as  he  was  busily  engaged  in  dressing 
for  dinner.  She  held  the  evening  paper  in 
her  hand,  and  burst  forth  excitedly: 

"Have  you  read  it?"  she  cried,  breath- 
lessly, thrusting  the  sheet  into  his  aston- 
ished hand.  ^'It's  the  first  notice,  obituary 
notice.'' 

The  Professor  ran  his  eye  down  the  first 
column. 

Entered  into  eternal  rest,  on  the  10th  of 
October,  at  'The  Sea-Urchin,'  Craw- 
ford, Conn.,  Lois  Amelia,  beloved  wife 
of  Otto  Karl  Hugo,  Count  von  Arnheim, 
of  Arnheim,  Prussia.  Funeral 
private. 

"What  a  fortunate  escape  for  him,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Butler,  as  the  Professor  laid 
the  paper  down  in  silence.  "It  certainly 
looks  like  the  finger  of  Providence,  doesn't 
itr 

But  the  Professor  only  said:  "Poor  soul,'^ 
very  softly  to  himself,  as  his  wife  left  the 
apartment. 


108 


In  Poverty  Row. 


109 


In  Poverty  Row. 


IT  IS  strange  how  seldom  a  person  recog- 
nizes the  wisdom  and  philosophy  of 
Destiny.  She  is  apt  to  be  painted 
much  blacker  than  she  is,  or  to  be  exalted 
to  the  skies  on  clouds  of  adoring  incense. 
In  reality,  however,  she  is  justice  incar- 
nate. This  fact  has  been  taught  me  by  ex- 
perience, for,  though  Fate  has  denied  me 
health,  she  has  softened  the  blow  by  be- 
stowing upon  me  really  embarrassing 
riches;  nevertheless,  I  am  grateful,  for  I 
have  been  enabled  thus  to  secure  a  vica- 
rious sort  of  satisfaction  in  seeing  others 
enjoy  the  dinners  an  invalid  digestion  for- 
bids to  me.  With  a  subtle  humor,  she  mar- 
ried the  one  woman  in  my  little  world  to 
my  dearest  friend,  and  with  logical  consist- 
lil 


In  Poverty  Row. 

ence  put  half  the  continent  between  us,  but 
I  do  not  complain,  for  she  permits  me  to 
win  for  others  the  happiness  that  I  have 
missed,  and,  after  all,  there  is  a  superb 
sense  of  power  in  feeling  that  you  are  a  sort 
of  golden  providence,  and  can  buy  for  an- 
other what  Fate  has  refused  to  you. 

One  charming  day  in  early  April  I  was 
strolling  leisurely  along  Poverty  Row  in 
search  of  my  lost  health  in  the  soft,  spring 
air  and  genial  sunlight.  I  went  along  Pov- 
erty Row  because  I  have  discovered  that 
the  sun  is  as  warm  and  golden  and  the 
air  as  invigorating  there  as  on  the  Avenue 
where  the  doctors  have  ordered  me  to 
walk;  and,  also,  I  am  usually  at  the  mercy 
of  a  torturing  and  uncompromising  head- 
ache, and  I  find  more  to  distract  my 
thoughts  from  myself  in  that  dilapidated 
thoroughfare  of  the  poor.  Human  nature 
exists  there  in  the  raw,  unspoiled  by  civil- 
ization, and  one  is  certain  to  light  upon 
something  rare  and  interesting. 

The  usual  number  of  ragged,  light-heart 
11^ 


In  Poverty  Row. 

ed  children  were  playing  noisily  together 
along  the  roadside;  the  familiar  groups  of 
bare-armed,  calico-clad  women  were  ex- 
changing choice  bits  of  gossip  across  the 
rickety  fences;  life  seemed  sweet  and  care- 
less and  peaceful  beneath  the  amethyst, 
April  sky.  An  enigmatical  sort  of  envy 
seized  me  as  I  looked  at  the  happy,  uncon- 
scious throng.  They  had  everything  which 
I  had  not — health,  and  an  evident  lively 
enjoyment  of  life — and  yet  I  experienced  a 
curious,  contradictory  contentment  with 
my  illness  and  desolation,  for  I,  too,  had 
had  my  day — my  sweet,  short  day,  and,  al- 
though I  had  experienced  also  the  worst  of 
death,  a  strange  peace  held  possession  of 
me. 

Beside  the  doorway  of  a  cottage  rather 
more  pretentious  than  its  neighbors  I  no- 
ticed a  tin  sign  bearing  the  inscription: 
^^Mrs.  Rolf,"  in  dingy,  gilt  lettering.  It  ex- 
cited my  curiosity,  and  I  speculated  vague- 
ly as  to  its  significance.  Who  was  this  Mrs. 
Rolf,  whose  identity  seemed  so  bravely  in- 
113 


In  Poverty  Row. 

dependent?  I  decided  that  she  was  prob- 
ably responsible  for  some  of  the  singular 
costumes  I  had  observed,  lending  to  the 
scene  an  eccentric  and  kaleidoscopic  effect. 
But  how  unusual  for  a  dressmaker  of  Pov- 
erty Eow  to  have  copied  with  so  remark- 
able a  fidelity  the  customs  of  the  grand  dic- 
tators of  fashion.  Could  Worth  himself 
have  been  more  composedly  succinct! 

I  walked  back  again  past  the  little  house 
whose  battered  sign  possessed  so  strange 
a  fascination  for  me.  Several  persons  were 
on  the  point  of  entering;  two  young  girls 
were  coming  out;  there  was  an  awed  ex- 
pression on  the  face  of  one,  and  a  half-de- 
fiant laugh  on  the  lips  of  the  other.  I  was 
encouraged  to  open  the  rickety  gate,  and 
knock  at  the  weather-worn  door.  A  wom- 
an with  a  shock  of  palpably  artificial  hair 
admitted  me.  Never  have  I  been  permitted 
to  gaze  upon  a  person  so  honestly  meretri- 
cious. It  seemed  almost  as  if  her  complex- 
ion, teeth  and  hair  took  a  mischievous  de- 
light in  parading  their  spuriousness. 
114 


In  Poverty  Row. 

"There's  five  ahead  of  you,"  she  re- 
marked, smiling. 

"But  I'm  in  no  special  hurry;  I  will 
wait,''  I  said,  carelessly. 

She  opened  the  door  and  ushered  me  into 
a  darkened  room,  where  I  groped  my  way 
cautiously  to  a  chair.  There  were  five 
women  sitting  in  a  solemn  row  against  the 
opposite  wall.  They  were  evidently  not 
working  girls,  and  quite  as  evidently  they 
were  not  ladies  in  the  ordinary  acceptance 
of  the  term,  but  occupied  an  anomalous  po- 
sition half  way  between. 

"Ain't  you  scared,  Molly?"  asked  one. 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Molly;  "I've  been  to 
'em  too  often  to  get  scared." 

She  was  a  stout,  jovial  woman  of  thirty 
or  thereabouts,  and  smiled  out  upon  the 
world,  good-humoredly,  with  a  pair  of  blue, 
Teutonic  eyes. 

"It  sorter  scares  me,"  remarked  a  slight, 
young  girl.  "It  makes  me  feel  so  kinder 
queer." 

"The  last  time  I  went,"  continued  Molly, 
115 


In  Poverty  Row. 

"was  when  I  was  to  Portland,  Maine.  She 
was  an  awful  good  clairvoyant.  Says  she 
to  me,  says  she,  ^You're  a-goin'  to  take  a 
long  sea  voyage  very  soon,'  says  she,  ^soon- 
er than  you  think  for,'  says  she,  and  sure 
enough  I  went  that  very  night  to  New  York 
by  the  boat.'' 

This  bit  of  personal  history  was  received 
in  the  awestruck  silence  it  merited. 

"An'  she  tole  me,"  went  on  Molly,  with 
an  evident  delight  in  the  sensation  she  was 
creating,  "as  how  I  was  a-goin'  to  marry  a 
dark-complected  man — an'  you  know  my 
William  is  dark-complected — an'  that  we 
was  a-goin'  to  meet  to  a  hotel,  an'  that  we 
wouldn't  keep  company  long — not  more  'an 
a  month — an'  every  word  come  true,  just  as 
she  said." 

"That  swell  feller's  a-goin'  to  have  his 
tole,"  I  heard  one  young  woman  whisper  to 
another.  "I  bet  he's  had  a  smash-up  with 
his  girl,  an'  wants  to  know  how  it's  a-goin' 
to  turn  out." 

Protected  by  the  gloom  and  my  heavy 
116 


In  Poverty  Row. 

moustache,  I  indulged  in  a  quiet  smile.  I 
had,  indeed,  had  the  "smash-up''  so  deli- 
cately suggested,  but,  unfortunately,  I 
knew  only  too  well  how  it  had  turned  out, 
so  I  comforted  myself  with  the  reflection 
that  at  least  I  had  had  my  day,  and  that 
nothing  could  ever  take  away  from  me  the 
reflection  that  once  I,  too,  had  said  to  the 
flying  moment:  "Ah,  still  delay,  thou  art 
so  fair!"  It  had  not  obeyed  my  imperative 
command,  but  had  sped  past  on  lightning 
wings,  yet  it  had  left  me  the  sweetness  of 
its  memory. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  a  river  of 
yellow  sunlight  rippled  across  the  gloom 
of  the  room.  I  do  not  know  whether  the 
effect  was  intentionally  dramatic  or  not, 
but  it  seemed  quite  obviously  symbolic  to 
me — ^that  golden  bar  of  light  descending 
graciously  upon  us  from  the  nameless  mys- 
tery of  the  Sybil's  apartment. 

The  slow  clock  on  the  shelf  above  my 
head  ticked  away  a  monotonous  hour  and 
a  half  before  my  turn  arrived.  Meanwhile 
117 


In  Poverty  Row. 

the  room  had  become  filled  with  persons 
waiting  in  a  patient  silence  to  penetrate  the 
secrets  of  the  future.  We  presented  all  the 
impressive  solemnity  of  a  country  funeral 
without  the  attendant  horror  of  the  corpse. 

Once  more  the  resplendent  sunlight 
broke  in  upon  the  darkness,  and  the  woman 
with  the  artificial  hair  beckoned  me  to  tpl- 
low  her.  She  led  me  to  a  room  at  the  end 
of  the  narrow  passage,  and  demanded 
twenty-five  cents  as  the  entrance  fee. 
Having  accomplished  this  business  prelude, 
the  mystic  door  which  separated  me  from 
the  Sybil  opened,  and  I  stood  in  the  awful 
presence. 

It  was  a  simple,  small  apartment,  fur- 
nished merely  with  the  bare,  cheap  neces- 
sities of  the  poor,  but  it  was  strikingly  well- 
ordered  and  neat.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  sat  a  young  woman,  clad  in  a  close- 
fitting,  black  gown.  She  was  tall  and 
slight,  with  a  pale  face,  absolutely  color- 
less, except  for  the  faint  pink  of  her  lips. 
She  lift-ed  her  large,  dark-lashed  eyes  to 
118 


In  Poverty  Rowc 

mine,  and  the  moment  I  looked  into  their 
magnetic,  wonderful  depths  I  believed  in 
her,  not,  of  course,  in  her  art,  but  in  her;  I 
had  gone  up  to  scoff,  but  I  remained  to 
pray.  She  motioned  me  to  take  the  chair 
before  her,  and  when  I  had  seated  myself, 
she  took  my  hand  in  hers.  It  was  a  soft, 
caressing  touch,  inexpressibly  soothing. 

"I  am  very  tired,''  she  said.  "I  do  not 
know  whether  I  shall  be  successful." 

She  drew  one  thin  hand  slowly  across  her 
closed  eyes,  and  I  heard  the  sharp,  crack- 
ling sound  of  electricity;  her  warm,  nerv- 
ous fingers  closed  tightly  upon  my  own. 
With  a  sudden  surprising  sweep  of  her  eye- 
lids, her  beautiful  eyes  flashed  their  strange 
magnificence  full  into  mine.  I  was  decided- 
ly impressed. 

She  began  to  speak  in  a  low,  dreamy 
tone. 

"You  are  not  well,"  she  said,  "but  you 
are  going  to  be  well.    You  are  ill  now,  but 
you  will  recover  soon;  you  have  a  long  and 
happy  life  before  you." 
119 


In  Poverty  Row. 

It  crossed  my  mind,  humorously,  that  I 
had  paid  merely  a  quarter  to  learn  this,  and 
I  sent  a  fleeting  regret  after  the  thousands 
I  had  wasted  on  distinguished  specialists 
in  order  to  discover  that  I  must  die)  so  soon. 
I  almost  believed  her. 

"Your  life  has  not  always  been  happy," 
went  on  the  tender,  soothing  voice.  "You 
have  met  with  misfortunes — you  have  suf- 
fered a  catastrophe." 

"Yes,"  I  assented,  "I  have,  indeed,  had  a 
catastrophe." 

"But  the  worst  is  over,"  went  on  the  Sy- 
bil; "you  have  parted,  but  she  will  come 
back  to  you.  Do  not  forget — she  will  come 
back  to  you  soon." 

In  spite  of  the  absolute  impossibility  of 
the  realization  of  her  words,  my  heart — ^the 
heart  I  had  so  long  believed  to  be  dead — 
gave  a  mad  leap  at  the  mere  suggestion. 

"She  will  come  back  to  you;  she  will 
have  suffered  also,  but  she  will  be  all  the 
dearer  for  it.  You  had  a  misunderstand- 
ing— is  it  not  so?" 

120 


In  Poverty  Row. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  bitterly,  "we  had,  indeed,  a 
misunderstanding." 

"But  you  must  forgive  her,"  continued 
the  Sybil,  calmly;  "she  was  not  to  blame." 

"Who  was?"  I  questioned,  unbelievingly. 

"It  was  Fate,"  she  answered,  solemnly. 
"It  had  to  be." 

I  had  scarcely  expected  to  find  explana- 
tion and  consolation  in  Poverty  Eow. 
Through  the  open  window  rushed  the 
sweet,  spring  air,  balmily  prophetic  of 
summer.  Outside  the  voices  of  the  children 
at  play  in  the  distant  street  echoed  gayly. 
A  robin  was  singing  fearlessly  a  triumph- 
ant solo  of  love  upon  the  brown-budded 
bough  near  the  window.  The  world  seemed 
so  happy  and  full  of  glad,  young  life. 

"You  are  going  to  be  in  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances," said  Mrs.  Eolf;  "you  will 
never  know  what  it  means  to  be  in  need, 
and  in  time  you  will  be  famous." 

I  could  have  told  her  I  was  already  rath- 
er well  known  as  a  man  who  had  had  the 
audacity  to  live  a  year  beyond  the  limit  as- 
121 


In  Poverty  Row. 

signed  him  by  world-renowned  specialists; 
a  man  whose  case  was  even  now  cited  in 
the  medical  journals,  but  I  held  my  peace. 

"I  see  a  letter  coming  to  you  from  across 
the  sea,  but,  beware!  It  means  trouble.  I 
see  a  dark  man  and  a  fair  woman;  they 
have  plotted  your  ruin,  but  you  will  escape 
them.  You  will  be  in  doubt,  and  will  not 
know  which  way  to  turn  for  help,  but  it 
all  turns  out  happily  in  the  end,  and  you 
will  triumph." 

She  passed  her  fingers  slowly  across  her 
closed  eyes. 

"I  can  do  no  more  for  you,''  she  said, 
wearily. 

In  some  blind,  instinctive  fashion  I 
reached  the  street.  The  sunlight  was  still 
shining  goldenly  down  upon  the  children 
playing  light-heartedly  along  the  pave- 
ments. Some  kindly  and  protecting  demon 
must  have  guided  my  steps  homeward,  for 
I  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  words  I 
had  just  heard,  and  which  kept  echoing 
endlessly  in  my  brain:  ^^You  must  forgive 
122 


In  Poverty  Row. 

her  .   .   .  she  was  not  to  blame  ...  it 
was  Fate." 

•Jf  -JS-  *  *  *  *  * 

"A  cablegram,  James?  .  .  .  Yes,  you 
may  go.  I  shall  not  need  you  yet  .  .  . 
Dead?  Dorothy  dead?  Then  she  must  have 
died  before  she  knew  that  she  was  for- 
given! .  .  .  Dead?  Impossible!  So  young 
and  beautiful  and  loved,  she  had  nothing 
in  common  with  death  .  .  .  nothing  except 
that  death  gives  us  back  to  each  other,  and 
puts  an  everlasting  bar  between  us  and  her 
husband  who  won  her  from  me  by  a  lie 
I  can  feel  again  the  soft,  warm 
pressure  of  her  arms  about  my  neck.  .  . 
dead?  Oh,  no;  asleep,  perhaps,  and  dream- 
ing, but  not  dead.  Ah,  Sweetheart,  kiss 
me,  for  it  grows  so  dark  and  cold,  and  I 
cannot  see  .  .  .  Forgive  thee,  Sweet? 
aye,  for  it  was  Fate  .•*..." 


123 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 


126 


The  Chevalier   D'Artois. 


THE  March  sunlight  was  smiling  with 
June  suavity  down  upon  Paris  on 
this  particular  morning  of  the  year 
of  grace  1894.  Innumerable  ragged  brown 
sparrows  were  chirping  and  hopping  about 
the  streets,  lending,  in  conjunction  with 
the  frequent  flower  booths  and  itinerant 
violet  venders,  an  assured  and  cheerful  as- 
pect of  early  summer,  which  a  possible 
morrow  of  chill  rain  and  sleet  might  dis- 
perse with  the  rapidity  of  a  wizard's  wand. 
Outside  the  cafes  and  wine-shops  a  crop 
of  little,  round  marble-topped  tables  had 
sprung  up  like  mushrooms  in  the  genial 
sunlight,  and  about  these  sat  indolent  hap- 
py Frenchmen,  smoking  cigarettes  and 
drinking  red  wine.  It  was  a  jovial,  heart- 
1^7 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

warming  day,  when  rain  and  fogs  seemed 
bad  dreams,  and  umbrellas  a  myth;  a  blue 
day  full  of  spring  flowers  and  joyousness. 

Jack  Eivington  was  coming  leisurely 
along  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse,  gazing 
with  unaccustomed  American  eyes  at  the 
happy  foreign  world  about  him.  Just  suf- 
ficient time  had  elapsed  between  his  grad- 
uation from  Harvard  and  an  unexpected 
bequest  of  a  wealthy  relative  to  remove  all 
traces  of  a  sad  satiety  from  European  trav- 
el. His  great-aunt's  fortune  had  become 
his  at  a  time  when  it  happened  to  be  im- 
perative that  he  should  earn  his  daily 
bread,  and  had  rescued  him  from  the  un- 
congenial task  of  instructing  the  youth  of 
a  provincial  High  School.  Life  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  blossomed  as  gloriously 
about  him  as  this  genial  March  morning 
about  the  dingy  old  Latin  Quarter. 

But  there  was  one  cloud  on  the  fair  bril- 
liance of  his  heaven.  She  who  occupied  his 
waking  thoughts  was  not  with  him  to  put 
the  final  touch  to  his  absolute  happiness. 
128 


The  Chevalier  D'Artos.i 

He  had  a  letter  in  his  pocket  which  had 
reached  him  by  that  morning's  post  from 
New  York,  and  which  seemed  to  radiate  his 
hopes,  and  to  promise  him  their  near  and 
dear  fulfillment.  The  girl  who  had  written 
him  that  letter  was  not  an  ordinary  girl, 
but  a  brilliant  young  woman  in  the  first 
fiush  of  a  successful  career.  He  had  first 
met  her  by  chance  at  a  college  reception, 
but  that  sudden,  subtle  sympathy  which 
owes  its  existence  so  seldom  to  mere  words, 
had  sprung  up  and  blossomed  into  friend- 
ship between  them.  She  was  an  orphan, 
with  a  su£Scient  income  to  gratify  her 
tastes,  which  were  those  of  a  modern  wom- 
an of  the  world.  She  had  twice  been 
around  the  world  with  her  father,  a  fas- 
tidious man  of  letters,  and  at  his  death  she 
had  succeeded  to  his  ownership  and  editor- 
ship of  a  well-known  magazine.  Even  her 
friends  had  regarded  this  adventure  with 
a  certain  dolorous  surprise,  for  the  clientele 
of  the  periodical  was  of  a  character  sure  to 
miss  the   delicate   touch   of  the   mature, 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

cultured  mind  which  had  directed  it  so 
long. 

Curiously,  the  prophets  were  wrong,  and 
her  father's  daughter  continued  to  manage 
his  affairs  successfully.  She  was  rather 
proud  of  her  success;  love  of  reform  for  its 
own  sake  was  one  of  Anne  Bigelow's 
marked  characteristics.  She  was  fond  of 
experiment,  of  advocating  lost  causes,  of 
perfecting  what  others  had  abandoned  as 
hopeless.  She  possessed  an  ardent,  ener- 
getic nature,  which  seemed  to  revivify 
whatever  it  touched. 

Eivington  was  thinking  about  her  now, 
as  he  walked  leisurely  along  the  Boulevard 
in  the  sunlight.  Charming  as  the  quaint  old 
Latin  Quarter  was,  it  was  haunted  by  his 
ever-present  regret  for  her  absence.  He 
took  out  her  letter  from  his  pocket  to  as- 
sure himself  that  it  was  really  there.  What 
a  strong,  bold  superscription!  How  like 
herself,  so  frankly  courageous  and  honest! 
That  singular  candor  was  the  one  trait  he 
cared  for  above  all  others  in  her,  although 
130 


The  ChevalierD'Artois. 

it  had  really  prevented  a  definite  engage- 
ment between  them.  She  had  insisted  that 
their  understanding  should  rest  upon 
nothing  more  fettering  than  an  occasional 
correspondence  and  complete  liberty  for 
two  years  at  least.  He  found  himself  ad- 
miring even  while  he  passionately  re- 
gretted her  decision.  He  told  himself  that 
it  was  far  wiser  for  them  both  to  expand 
their  experience  before  taking  the  solemn- 
ly irrevocable  step  of  marriage.  And  yet 
something  within  him  revolted  against  his 
enforced  freedom  and  reiterated  incessant- 
ly his  absolute  constancy  and  the  lost  time 
of  delay.  For  two  long  years,  stretching 
out  in  endless  dreariness  before  him,  he 
had  promised  not  to  see  her,  but  the  world, 
when  he  knew  so  certainly  that  the  world 
in  comparison  with  her  meant  so  absolute- 
ly nothing  to  him.  And  yet  he  admired  her 
courage  and  honesty  in  forcing  him  to  this 
action. 

He  was  much  surer  of  himself  than  of 
her.    She  was  so  terribly  analytic,  so  scien- 
131 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

tifically  trained,  and  quite  as  unsparing  of 
herself  as  of  him.  If  at  the  end  of  two  years 
she  sent  for  him  he  could  never  doubt  her 
complete  sincerity.  But  often  on  his  lonely 
wanderings  misgivings  assailed  him  and  he 
questioned  whether  she  would  recall  him 
at  the  end  of  those  problematic  two  years. 

But  on  this  particular  morning  when  the 
balmy  March  world  was  smiling  all  about 
him  in  this  bizarre  corner  of  the  old  Latin 
Quarter  he  had  no  misgivings.  There  was 
a  certain  warmth  in  the  yellow  sunlight 
which  melted  despondent  fears.  Eivington 
had  left  the  Boulevard  and  wandered  aim- 
lessly down  an  obscure  impasse  which  his 
preoccupation  had  prevented  him  from  per- 
ceiving. It  was  only  when  he  found  him- 
self suddenly  brought  up  by  a  building  di- 
rectly in  his  path  that  he  realized  his  mis- 
take. An  old  curiosity  shop  blocked  his 
way,  and  in  its  narrow  doorway  leaned  the 
smiling  proprietor,  with  the  inevitable 
cigarette  between  his  lips,  which  he  courte- 
ously removed  to  make  way  for  a  genial 
132 


The  Chevalier  D^Artois. 

^^Bon  jour,  M'sieu,  il  fait  beau  temps, 
aujourd'hui." 

^'Yes,  indeed/'  responded  the  American, 
smiling,  "and  have  you  anything  so  beauti- 
ful as  the  weather  in  your  shop  to-day?" 

"I  have  things  quite  as  rare  as  such  a 
day  in  March/'  said  the  Frenchman,  "but 
M'sieu  is  well  aware  that  there  is  seldom 
anything  new  in  antiquities.  If  M'sieu  will 
do  me  the  honor  to  enter.     .      .      . " 

Rivington  went  inside  the  shop  and 
looked  with  interest  at  the  heterogeneous 
collection.  He  was  rather  fond  of  antiquity 
shops  and  their  curious  wares,  always  re- 
garding them  with  an  eye  to  their  suitabil- 
ity for  certain  artistic  apartments  in  New 
York.  She  had  forgotten  to  forbid  him  to 
send  her  presents,  and  this  omission  lent 
his  wanderings  their  sole  purpose. 

He  wondered  whether  she  would  like  an 
odd,  silver-hilted  sword,  which  the  shop- 
keeper gravely  assured  him  had  belonged 
to  the  first  Napoleon.  One  result  of  his 
Paris  experience  had  been  the  implanting 
133 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

in  him  a  rooted  distrust  of  what  shopkeep- 
ers told  him^  and  he  promptly  decided  to 
purchase  something  less  authentic,  some- 
thing so  genuinely  antique  that  the  voluble 
little  Frenchman  would  be  hopelessly  un- 
able to  lie  about  it.  He  wandered  across 
the  shop  to  a  far  corner,  and  his  roving  eye 
rested  on  a  tall  canvas  propped  against  the 
wall. 

"What  have  you  here?''  he  asked. 

The  shopkeeper  seemed  strangely  em- 
barrassed. 

"That  is  supposed  to  be  a  portrait  of  the 
Chevalier  d'Artois,  M'sieu/'  he  answered, 
hesitatingly.  "It  is  painted  by  Jan  Ten 
Eyck.  If  M'sieu  will  give  himself  the  trou- 
ble to  look  in  the  corner  he  will  see  the 
artist's  motto,  ^Als  Ixh  Xan,'  very  dis- 
tinctly. There  is  no  doubt  that  it  is  orig- 
inal." 

"Then  it  must  be  priceless,"  said  Eiving- 
ton.  He  had  a  good,  although  amateurish, 
knowledge  of  pictures. 

"M'sieu  may  have  it  at  his  own  price," 

134: 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

said  the  imperturbable   Frenchman,  sud- 
denly. 

Rivington  turned  from  his  scrutiny  of 
the  portrait  to  stare  at  the  shopkeeper. 
Suddenly  there  seemed  something  more 
uniquely  rare  than  this  ancient  picture  in 
the  little  curiosity  shop. 

"I  have  no  idea  of  its  real  value/'  he  said, 
at  length. 

^^Since  the  portrait  pleases  M'sieu,"  went 
on  the  man,  "I  will  confess  its  history.  No 
doubt  exists  of  its  genuineness.  It  has 
been  already  in  the  studio  of  nearly  every 
celebrated  painter  in  Paris,  but,  alas, 
M'sieu,  it  always  comes  back.  There  is  al- 
ways the  same  story.'' 

"And  what  is  the  story?" 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
as  if  disclaiming  any  responsibility  for  the 
truth  of  what  he  was  about  to  say. 

"They  say  it  is  haunted,  M'sieu;  that  the 
ghost  of  Philip  of  Burgundy  resides  in  it.  I 
myself  do  not  know,  M'sieu.   I  see  only  a 
valuable  portrait  by  the  great  master," 
135 


The  Chevalier  D^Artois. 

Eivington  examined  the  picture  with  in- 
tensified interest.  It  was  a  large  canvas 
representing  the  life-size  figure  of  a  young 
knight  of  the  Middle  Ages.  At  Its  best  the 
portrait  could  not  have  been  brilliantly 
distinct,  hut  after  the  lapse  of  centuries  it 
had  faded  away  into  a  shadowed  obscurity, 
leaving  only  suggestions  of  a  tall  figure  in 
Flemish  armor,  with  hands  crossed  before 
him  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  His  face, 
however,  stood  out  in  bold  relief  from  the 
dim  background.  Beneath  his  plumed  hel- 
met the  beauty  and  audacity  of  his  features 
stood  out  with  the  clearness  of  a  cameo.  It 
was  a  restless,  dare-devil  face,  in  spite  of 
its  dark  beauty,  possessing  a  strange  qual- 
ity of  actuality.  Eivington  shivered 
slightly  as  he  regarded  it.  It  seemed  to  di- 
vine his  thoughts,  and  to  answer  them 
mockingly.  It  fascinated  him  in  a  power- 
ful manner,  and  he  decided  to  buy  it  for 
Anne,  even  if  it  were  genuine  or  not.  She 
would  be  certain  to  be  interested  in  its  his- 
tory and  would  welcome  a  haunted  por- 
i36 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

I  rait  from  this  out-of-the-way  nook  in  the 
Latin  Quarter. 

The  shopkeeper  sold  it  at  what  Eiving- 
ton  felt  to  be  a  ridiculously  low  figure  in 
comparison  with  its  worth,  but  he  insisted 
on  the  finality  of  the  bargain  in  an  absurd- 
ly anxious  way. 

"I  have  toM  jou  its  history,  M'sieu,"'  he 
said,  frankly,  "and  I  confess  I  desire  to  as- 
sure myself  forever  against  its  return.  Mon 
Dieu,  what  scenes  I  have  witnessed!" 

"You  may  make  your  mind  easy  this 
time,''  said  Eivington,  reassuringly;  "I 
shall  send  it  directly  to  New  York." 

"Thank  the  good  God!"  said  the  French- 
man, "but  you  relieve  me,  M'sieu." 

Eivington  left  the  shop  delighted  with 
his  purchase  for  Anne's  sake.  How  pleased 
she  would  be  to  possess  a  genuine  Ten 
Eyck.  She  loved  old  pictures,  particularly 
those  of  the  Flemish  school.  He  felt  a 
boundless  gratitude  to  Destiny  for  leading 
him  down  the  quaint  little  impasse. 

Suddenly,  through  his  happy  reflections, 
137 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

he  became  aware  of  a  childlike  voice  sing- 
ing sweetly  and  softly  out  of  the  sunshine: 

*'  Sur  le  pont  d* Avignon 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse    .     .     .     danse 
Sur  le  pont  d' Avignon 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse  en  rond. 
Les  beaux  messieurs  font  comm'  ga, 
Sur  le  pont  d' Avignon 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse    .     .    .     .    " 

The  young  American  turned  about  to 
smile  happily  at  the  little  unknown  singer 
who  was  thus  joyously  voicing  his  content, 
but  there  was  no  child  there;  except  for  a 
stray  dog  the  tiny  impasse  was  deserted. 

5j»  ^C  SjC  »i»  JjC  ^»  ^« 

Miss  Bigelow  was  sitting  in  her  cheerful 
study  one  evening  examining  some  MSS. 
which  had  been  submitted  to  her  by  the 
chief  reader  of  the  magazine.  She  con- 
tinued her  father's  custom  of  scrutinizing 
carefully  all  material  accepted  for  publica- 
tion. She  possessed  an  unusual  power  of 
strict  concentration  on  the  subject  in  hand, 
^nd  the  formidable  pile  of  MSS.  was  fiu- 

m 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

ished  as  the  city  clocks  struck  midnight. 
She  took  up  her  pen  and  began  writing  a 
letter  to  Eivington. 

^^Such  a  busy  day/'  she  wrote;  ^^but  now 
it  is  midnight  and  over,  and  I  am  free.  It 
is  just  a  year  and  six  months  to-night  since 
we  agreed  upon  our  ^anti-nuptial  contract/ 
as  you  alw^ays  called  it.  Do  you  remember? 
It  was  at  the  Crawfords'  reception,  and  we 
were  quite  alone — you  and  I— in  a  deserted 
corner  of  the  conservatory.  We  had  been 
discussing  the  financial  condition  of  the 
United  States,  and  you  changed  the  sub- 
ject to  a  more  directly  personal  one  so  mod- 
estly and  quietly  that  I  confess  I  was  not  so 
shocked  and  surprised  as  I  felt  later  I 
ought  to  have  been.  You  said  that  your 
financial  condition  had  changed  so  abrupt- 
ly and  happily  that  you  were  in  a  position 
to  ask  me  to  marry  you — a  question  which 
you  had  hoped  to  ask  me  some  time  ever 
since  we  had  met,  and  I  remember  asking 
you  whether  you  fancied  a  couple  of  con- 
versations and  a  few  dancer  a  sufficient 
139 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


The  Chevalier  D*Artois. 

basis  for  a  life  partnership.  But  you  point- 
ed out  that  a  friendship  like  ours  did  not 
depend  on  frequent  meetings  .  .  .  and, 
well,  I  mustn't  remember  all  the  utterly 
absurd  things  you  said.  No  doubt  you 
have  forgotten  them  yourself  by  this  time. 
But  we  agreed  upon  a  tacit  understanding, 
>that  for  two  years  we  both  should  be  free, 
and  should  test  the  sincerity  of  our  under- 
standing, for  I  confess  I  felt  strangely 
drawn  to  you  that  evening  in  the  conserva- 
tory; and  since  then  I  have  experienced  a 
sort  of  dual  personality,  as  if  I  were  with 
you  wherever  you  may  be.  I  shall  not  send 
you  this  letter,  because  it  is  too  personal, 
but  you  will  find  it  when  you  return,  for  I 
shall  write  to  you  intimately  like  this 
sometimes,  and  when  you  read  the  emi- 
nently proper  occasional  notes  I  send  you 
you  will  not  dream  of  these  different  ones 
lying  here  in  my  strong  box  awaiting  your 
return.  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  set  my 
thoughts  in  black  and  white,  because  I 
have  not  felt  sure  of  myself  before.  A  great 
140 


The  Chevalier  D^Artcis. 

truth  vanquishes  us  when  we  feel  most  se- 
cure, and  I  would  not  be  I  if  I  could  not 
write  you  exactly  what  I  feel.  ...  I 
love  you,  Jack.  I  sit  here  lonely  and  long 
for  you,  and  thrill  with  joy  to  know  that  I 
love  you.  Ah,  Jack,  you  must  love  me  a 
little  in  return.     .      .      .'' 

She  sealed  and  addressed  this  letter  and 
placed  it  securely  in  a  strong  box  in  her 
desk.  To  a  woman  of  her  decision  it  was  a 
distinct  relief  to  know  the  truth,  and  to 
confess  it.  The  last  six  months  of  sincere 
doubt  and  self-questionings  had  robbed  her 
life  of  its  usual  serenity.  She  went  to  bed 
happy  in  the  sureness  of  her  surrender. 

The  solitary  letter  with  its  confession  lay 
undisturbed  in  the  strong  box  for  a  month. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  Miss  Bigelow 
opened  it  and  placed  another  letter  within. 

"I  wish  you  were  here,"  she  wrote.  ^^Such 
strange  things  are  happening,  which  I 
scarcely  dare  write  down  on  paper,  they 
are  so  vague  and  unreal.  You  remember 
the  beautiful  old  portrait  by  Ten  Eyck 
141 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

which  you  sent  me  from  Paris — the  Cheva- 
lier d'Artois?  I  was  charmed  with  it,  and 
ordered  it  hung  in  my  study  near  my  desk. 
I  did  not  have  it  ^restored/  because  I  love 
the  dark  shadows  and  the  singularly  clear 
effect  they  give  the  face.  I  would  not  have 
them  improved  away  by  any  "restorer"  for 
worlds.  I  love  this  portrait;  it  is  so  mod- 
ern, so  living,  so  absurdly  real.  And  I  love 
the  stories  of  its  being  haunted.  It  has  ex- 
ercised a  curious  fascination  over  me  from 
the  first.  It  is  not  because  of  the  mere 
beauty  of  the  dark,  bearded  Spanish  face — 
you  know,  I  am  not  so  youthfully  suscep- 
tible— but  there  is  a  certain  somewhat 
about  it  which  holds  and  commands  me.  I 
love  this  portrait,  not  only  because  you  sent 
it  to  me,  dearest,  but  for  the  subtlety  of  its 
own  sake.  I  have  even  sunk  so  low  as  to 
offer  flowers  before  it — fresh-cut  roses  and 
violets — and  the  Chevalier  is  always  cour- 
teous enough  to  smile  his  thanks  in  a  most 
bewitching  fashion.  I  wish  you  might  see 
him  do  it.  I  am  not  talking  absolute  nou- 
1« 


The  Chevalier  D^Artois. 

sense,  but  this  is  enough  nonsense  for  one 
evening.'^ 

The  next  letter  in  the  strong  box  was 
dated  several  months  later  than  the  last 
one. 

^^I  cannot  live  without  telling  you  the 
truth/'  it  began.  "You  will  probably  con- 
sider me  crazed  from  overwork,  or  the  like, 
but  I  swear  to  you  solemnly  that  I  am  in 
full  possession  of  my  mind.  Last  night  the 
Chevalier  d'Artois  spoke  to  me.  He  is  not 
a  picture,  but  a  man  imprisoned  in  paint. 
And  he  is  not  the  Chevalier  d'Artois,  as  we 
had  supposed.  He  is  not  even  painted  by 
Ten  Eyck,  but  by  himself. 

"Let  me  begin  at  the  beginning.  I  think 
I  have  written  you  of  the  curious,  almost 
human,  fascination  he  has  exercised  over 
me  from  the  first.  I  used  to  put  fresh  flow- 
ers before  him  every  day — and  that  espe- 
cial kind  of  fatuity  is  not  my  metier,  you 
will  understand.  I  shall  nothing  extenuate, 
but  shall  confess  the  whole  truth.  He  used 
to  smile  back  at  me  every  morning  when  I 
U3 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

placed  the  flowers  before  him — I  swear  he 
did — and  I  used  to  laugh  at  myself  for  im- 
agining such  a  thing.  It  was  such  a  cheap 
delusion.  I  began  to  believe  I  was  working 
too  much,  and  took  a  vacation  into  the 
country.  On  my  return  I  found  myself  talk- 
ing to  him — ^you  know  that  is  one  of  the 
signs  of  madness,  talking  to  oneself,  and  I 
saw  our  doctor.  He  said  my  general  health, 
mental  and  physical,  was  never  better,  and 
I  came  home  greatly  relieved.  I  determined 
not  to  speak  to  the  Chevalier  again,  when 
one  evening  he  spoke  to  me.  I  swear  it 
solemnly.  I  had  been  sitting  in  the  twi- 
light after  tea  thinking  of  you,  when  I 
seemed  to  hear  a  faint,  far  voice,  so  delicate 
as  almost  to  be  a  whisper.  I  glanced  at  the 
Chevalier  and  I  saw  his  lips  moving.  I  lit 
the  gas — all  the  burners,  to  be  sure  of  a 
glare — and  still  his  lips  were  moving,  and 
he  spoke.  He  used  a  certain  softened 
French,  a  patois,  and  if  I  had  not  studied 
Provencal  in  college  I  might  not  have  un- 
derstood him.    As  it  was  I  managed  to  fol- 

144: 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

low  him  perfectly,  although  it  T:as  not  in 
Provencal  that  he  spoke. 

"  ^Faire  ladye/  he  said,  ^dare  I  hope  that 
thou  wilt  bestow  thy  gracious  attention 
upon  thy  faithful  knight?' 

"I  was  not  conscious  of  being  even  sur- 
prised. It  seemed  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  to  be  addressed  by  him.  And 
yet  I  was  conscious  of  the  actual  incon- 
gruity, for  I  replied: 

"  ^I  am  ready  to  bestow  all  my  attention 
upon  a  painted  gentleman  who  manages  to 
speak  to  me  from  a  picture,'  I  said,  rising 
to  the  occasion  as  best  I  might.  At  that  mo- 
ment I  suspected  the  whole  world.  Perhaps 
Collins,  the  sub-editor,  who  is  a  bit  of  a 
wag  and  a  ventriloquist,  was  daring  to  play 
me  a  trick. 

"  ^Thou  supposest  me  Philip,  Earl  of  Ar- 
tois  and  Boulogne,  who  was  killed  at  the 
siege  of  Aiguillon,  faire  ladye.  Thou  be- 
lievest  my  kinsman,  Philip  of  Burgundy, 
ordered  his  valet  de  chambre,  Jan  Ten 
Eyck,  to  paint  me  as  I  am,  a  Flemish 
145 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 
knight  in  full  armour;  but  thou  mistakest, 
faire  ladye.    Thou  seest  in  me  but  an  ob- 
scure artist,  who  has  tried  to  paint  himself 
and  failed/ 

^^I  know  what  you  and  all  the  world  must 
think,  Jack  dear,  but  I  shall  put  down  the 
truth,  for  all  that.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to 
write  the  words,  for  I  cannot  speak  of  this 
to  anyone. 

"  ^Ten  Eyck  invented  the  art  of  painting 
with  oils,'  went  on  the  Chevalier,  ^but  I 
invented  something  far  greater,  although  I 
was  only  his  obscure  pupil,  who  humbly 
gathered  up  the  crumbs  which  fell  from  the 
master's  table.  He  painted  flaccid  repre- 
sentations of  the  living.  I  mixed  my  ma- 
terials with  blood;  he  his  with  unrespon- 
sive oils.  I  painted  myself — alive,  actual — 
drop  by  drop  daily  into  my  canvas  until  I 
became  the  picture,  and  the  picture  became 
me.  But  there  was  one  thing  I  could  not 
paint  with  my  cunning  brushes  that  knew 
so  well  how  to  help  me  to  paint  all  else.  I 
146 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

could  not  paint  soul;  soul  has  always  es- 
caped me.' 

"  ^But  the  rest  of  you/  I  struck  in;  ^how 
did  you  manage  to  paint  what  was  not 
soul?' 

"  ^Ah,  faire  ladye/  said  he,  bowing  and 
smiling,  ^that  must  forever  remain  my  se- 
cret, mine  and  that  of  a  certain  Franciscan 
friar  of  Avignon,  John  de  Kochelaillade  by 
name,  who  once  wrote  a  book  upon  the  sub- 
ject. It  would  not  interest  thee,  faire  ladye, 
to  peruse  this  MS.,  for  it  is  written  in  a 
crabbed  black  letter  which  I  made  out  with 
the  greatest  difficulty.  Moreover,  it  is  writ- 
ten in  Latin,  and  I  took  care  that  it  sliould 
^^anish  with  me.  I  disappeared  into  this 
portrait,  madame,  and  the  MS.  disappeared 
also;  but  where?  Who  knows?' 

''  'If  you  had  succeeded  in  painting  soul/ 
I  asked,  'would  you  now  be  alive?' 

''You  will  notice,  Jack,  dear,  I  do  not 
recognize  him  as  really  alive,  but  as  per- 
haps the  figment  of  my  owm  brain.     You 
may  imagine  how  his  reply  startled  me. 
147 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

"  ^I  do  live  from  time  to  time/  he  said, 
^by  borrowing  other  persons'  souls,  faire 
ladye/ 

^'I  was  altogether  too  shocked  to  speak. 
He  was  really  going  a  bit  too  far. 

"  ^Some  day/  he  went  on,  smilingly,  ^I 
shall  possess  thine.' 

"At  this  juncture  I  decided  to  go  to  bed.'' 

The  next  and  last  letter  bore  a  date  sev- 
eral weeks  later  than  its  immediate  prede- 
cessor. 

"Dear  Jack,"  it  ran,  "I  have  your  letter 
telling  me  of  your  safe  arrival.  I  have  just 
answered  it  and  sent  it  to  your  hotel.  I 
will  explain  it  more  fully  when  you  come 
this  evening.  Shall  I  ever  dare  to  tell  you 
I  love  you,  after  these  long,  long  two  years? 
Perhaps  I  may  only  put  these  letters  in 
your  hand  and  leave  you  alone  to  read 
them,  for  you  will  see  how  suddenly  shy  I 
have  become.  Shyness  was  not  a  trait  of 
mine  when  first  we  met,  you  will  remem- 
ber. 

"The  Chevalier  is  still  as  smiling  and 
148 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

courteous  and  conversational  as  ever.  He 
has  challenged  me  to  kiss  him.  He  tells 
me  solemnly  from  beneath  his  plumed  hel- 
met, that  from  the  moment  I  kiss  him  my 
soul  belongs  to  him.  It  is  such  a  curious 
assertion  that  I  intend  putting  it  to  the 
test.  You  will  discover  that  I  have  written 
you  a  vast  deal  of — what  shall  I  say?  non- 
sense— in  these  letters,  and  in  a  sense  this 
kiss  must  be  my  expiation,  my  explanation. 
You  will  not  be  jealous  if  I  kiss  the  painted 
lips  of  a  Chevalier  who  has  been  dead  so 
many  centuries?  Since  I  have  never  touched 
those  of  a  living  man,  will  it  destroy  the 
sweetness  of  the  one  I  have  kept  for  you  so 
long?  But  this  is  idle  to  write  all  this,  when 
I  shall  see  you  yourself  so  soon.  It  is  near- 
ly eight  o'clock,  and  I  am  going  into  the 
study  now  to  kiss  my  Chevalier,  and  then 
.     .     .     I  shall  be  listening  for  your  step." 

At  eight  o'clock  precisely  one  clear  No- 
vember evening  a  tall,  smiling  young  man 
ran  lightly  up  the  brownstone  steps  of  a 
149 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois. 

house  in  Fifty-sixth  street,  and  rang  the 
bell.  The  maid  who  answered  his  ring  wore 
a  troubled  expression. 

"Miss  Bigelow  is  at  home,  sir/'  she  said 
in  response  to  his  enquiry,  '^but  she  is  ill. 
Her  aunt  is  with  her,  and  a  physician.'' 

Beyond,  in  the  brightly  lighted  hallway, 
he  caught  sight  of  the  anxious  face  of  Mrs. 
Keeves.    She  came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"Anne  is  very  ill,"  she  said  brokenly,  and 
he  guessed  the  truth  from  her  tones.  "It  is 
all  so  sudden,  so  unbelievable.  She  was  in 
the  gayest  spirits  at  dinner,  and  spoke  con- 
stantly of  you,  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  again.  She  left  me  only  a  few  moments 
ago,  and  shortly  afterward  we  heard  a 
piercing  shriek,  and  then  a  heavy  fall.  The 
butler  and  I  hastened  upstairs  to  her  study, 
and  there  we  found  her  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  floor  just  in  front  of  that  old  por- 
trait you  sent  her  from  Paris.  She  had  a 
small  box  in  her  hand  addressed  to  you.  I 
suppose  she  must  have  gone  to  fetch  it  to 
give  you.  We  summoned  a  doctor  at  once, 
150 


The  Chevalier  D'Artois/ 

but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  It  was 
heart  failure,  he  told  us,  produced  by  some 
sudden  shock.  She  must  have  fallen  against 
the  picture,  because  there  is  an  ugly  gash 
in  it,  and  the  portrait  is  quite  indistinguish- 
able, and  there  are  faint  marks  of  paint  on 
her  lips,  where  she  struck  it  in  falling." 

She  paused,  unable  to  continue,  and  then 
these  two,  who  had  loved  Anne,  went  up 
softly  into  the  dimly  lit  study  and  looked 
down  at  her  in  silence.  The  distant  noises 
from  the  street  came  up  faintly  through  the 
closed  windows.  Through  the  intermittent 
monotone  of  rolling  cab  wheels  Eivington's 
ears  caught  the  echo  of  a  song: 

"  Sur  le  pont  d* Avignon, 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse, 
Et  les  capucins  font  comm'  ga ; 
Snr  le  pont  d' Avignon." 

How  distinctly  it  brought  back  that 
beautiful  sunny  March  morning  in  the 
Latin  Quarter.  He  could  even  see  the  rough 
grey  stones  of  the  little  impasse  leading 
down  to  the  tiny  antiquity  shop,  in  whose 
151 


The  Chevalier  D^Artois. 

doorway  the  smiling  Frenchman  lazily 
lounged  and  smoked  his  cigarette.  But 
afterward,  upon  mature  reflection,  he  was 
not  altogether  certain  that  he  had  really 
heard  the  song. 


15'^ 


Her  Son. 


153 


Her  Son. 


COLONEL  CAKEUTHEES  pulled  at 
his  moustache  nervously,  in  more 
trepidation  than  he  would  have 
cared  to  confess.  Opposite  him  sat  his  wid- 
owed sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Courtney  Car- 
ruthers,  handsome  and  suave,  as  she  pre- 
sided with  her  accustomed  well-bred  grace 
over  the  daintily  appointed  tea-table  before 
her. 

"I  believe  you  take  no  cream,  Gerald?'* 
she  was  saying,  smilingly.  "Eeally,  it  is  so 
very  long  since  you've  done  me  the  honjor 
to  come  in  for  tea  that  I  fear  I've  for- 
gotten." 

"Just  tea,   plain  tea,  thank  you,"   an- 
swered the  Colonel,  absently.     Her  words 
had  increased  his  embarrassment,  for  a  say- 
ing of  his  was  often  quoted  at  the  Club — • 
155 


Her  Son 

''that  as  a  soldier  he  knew  no  fear,  but  as  a 
mere  man  he  fled  before  women,  afternoon 
teas  and  cigarettes/'  and  he  felt  that  his 
present  position  was  indefensible. 

He  was  wondering  how  he  would  better 
begin,  for  he  entertained  the  highest  re- 
spect  for  Mrs.  Carruthers'  cleverness  and 
powers  of  penetration,  and  under  the  cir- 
cumstances he  felt  that  discretion  was  by 
far  the  better  part  of  valor.  An  inspiration 
seized  him. 

^^I  suppose  you  hear  often  from  Eeggie/' 
he  said  suddenly.    ^^Does  he  like  Oxford  ?'^ 

^^He  seems  quite  charmed  by  it/',  said 
Reggie's  mother,  placidly.  "In  his  last  let- 
ter he  wrote  me  that  he  is  leading  quite  an 
ideal  life  there. 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  the  Colonel.  He'^ad- 
justed  his  eyeglass,  and  with  a  prefatory 
sigh,  crossed  the  Rubicon. 

"I  heard  rather  a  curious  story  at  the 

Club  the  other  evening,"  he  remarked  with 

his  usual,  languid  drawl.     "It  was  about 

a  student  at  Oxford,  er — who  is  in  lodg- 

156 


Her  Son. 

ings,  er — like  Eeggie,  don't  you  know,  and 
who  seems  to  be  getting  himself  into  quite 
an  interesting  scrape;  er — it's  his  land- 
lady's daughter." 

"It  always  is/'  commented  Mrs.  Carruth- 
ers,  serenely;  "when  it  isn't  the  cook.  As 
a  rule,  it's  the  cook." 

"This  affair,"  pursued  the  Colonel, 
"seems  to  have  reached  the  fifth  chapter, 
er — ^the  impending  crisis,  that  is  to  say." 
He  threw  back  his  head  luxuriously 
against  his  chair.  Having  overcome  his 
shyness,  he  was  beginning  to  realize  the 
artistic  possibilities  of  the  situation,  and 
to  congratulate  himself  on  his  skill  in 
handling  so  delicate  and  painful  a  subject. 
Mrs.  Carruthers,  still  smiling  serenely, 
daintily  stirred  her  tea. 

"The  worst  feature  about  these  cases," 
went  on  the  Colonel,  moralizingly,  "is  their 
insidiousness.  In  fact,  one  so  seldom  rec- 
ognizes the  danger  that  one  never  thinks  of 
taking  precautions  against  it." 

"Keggie  is  very  fortunate  in  his  land- 
157 


Her  Son. 

lady,"  remarked  Mrs.  Carruthers,  compla- 
cently. "I  selected  Iter  myself,  and  since 
she's  a  ^lone,  lorn  widow'  with  no  incum- 
brances, I  fancy  Reggie's  comparatively 
safe.'^. 

"A  widow/'  put  in  the  Colonel,  sen- 
tentiously,"  is  an  incomprehensible  thing. 
I  believe  with  the  elder  Weller,  that  it  is 
well  to  beware  of  them." 

"I  secured  his  lodgings  myself,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Oarruthers  with  a  touch  of  asperity  in 
her  low,  even  tones,  ^^and  I  assure  you  Mrs. 
Crupper  is  everything  to  be  desired  in  a 
landlady.  A  most  motherly  old  soul,  and 
even  if  she  had  a  daughter  who  was  both 
young  and  beautiful,  I  would  trust  Keggie. 
You  know  his  fastidious  tastes,  Gerald,  and 
then — he  is  my  son." 

There  was  such  composure  and  signifi- 
cance in  her  accents  that  the  Colonel  was 
unable  to  resist  a  slight,  cynical  smile  of 
superiority,  which  was  fortunately  con- 
cealed by  his  gray,  military  mustache. 

^Taith  like  that  is  simply  superb,"  he  re- 
158 


Her  Son. 

fleeted,  "but  it's  also  touching,"  and  he 
pressed  her  hand  with  unusual  warmth  as 
he  took  his  departure. 

Left  alone  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the 
drawing  room,  Mrs.  Carruthers  began  to 
reflect  on  the  recent  conversation.  As  the 
Colonel  l3elieYed,  she  was  a  remarkably 
clever  woman,  and  she  knew  very  well  that 
her  brother-in-law  had  not  happened  in  to 
tea  without  a  motive.  His  remarks  had 
been  chiefly  on  the  subject  of  this  entangle- 
ment of  a  young  Oxford  student  with  his 
landlady's  daughter  .  .  .  and  as  a  re- 
sult of  her  reflections,  Mrs.  Carruthers 
rang  for  her  maid,  and  gave  orders  for  her 
departure  for  Oxford  by  the  morning  ex- 
press from  Paddington. 


It  was  Saturday  noon  when  Mrs.  Court- 
ney Carruthers  arrived  at  the  beautiful, 
historical  town,  and  taking  a  fly,  she  was 
driven  immediately  to  the  quaint  old  tav- 
ern of  the  "Mitre"  on  the  High  Street.  She 
159 


Her  Son. 

lost  no  time  in  informing  her  son  of  her 
arrival,  and  was  calmly  seated  at  luncheon 
when  he  was  announced. 

"Ah,  mother,  what  a  delightful  surprise," 
he  said,  smiling  down  upon  her  from  his 
six  feet  of  stalwart  comeliness;  "but  why 
did  you  not  wire  me  you  were  coming 
down?'' 

"It  was  such  a  vagrant  whim,  Keggie,'' 
she  answered,  gazing  fondly  up  into  his 
handsome  face;  "the  vagrant  whim  of  an 
old  lady  who  finds  it  rather  difficult  to 
keep  away  from  her  only  son.  I  wonder 
whether  you  realize,  Keggie,  what  you 
mean  to  your  poor   old  mother?'' 

The  lad  sat  down.  There  was  a  curious, 
unfamiliar  embarrassment  in  his  manner 
which  his  mother  ignored.  They  were 
singularly  alike  in  appearance,  these  two, 
although  Keginald's  blue  eyes  and  chestnut 
hair  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
dark,  Spanish  beauty  of  his  mother's  face. 
Mrs.  Carruthers'  face  was  something  more 
than  merely  beautiful;  it  was  the  face  of 
160 


Her  Son.  * 

a  thinker,  of  a  person  of  distinguished  abil- 
ity and  determination.  The  significance 
was  evident  of  the  firm,  well-molded  chin, 
of  the  large,  deep,  intelligent  eyes,  and  of 
the  broad,  white  forehead  beneath  its  soft 
waves  of  gray  hair.  It  was  a  favorite  re- 
mark of  Colonel  Carruthers  that  the  world 
had  lost  a  brilliant  man  in  his  charming 
sister-in-law,  but  had  gained  a  rarely  inter- 
esting woman,  and  since  the  Colonel  was  a 
confirmed  woman-hater,  this  was  a  conces- 
sion not  without  weight. 

"And  are  you  at  leisure  this  morning, 
Reggie?''  asked  his  mother,  "because  I  have 
a  desire  to  be  taken  all  about  your  college." 

"I'm  always  at  your  leisure,  mother," 
said  the  lad,  and  together  they  set  out  down 
the  High  to  St.  Aldgates'.  Many  persons 
paused  to  glance  after  them — the  stately, 
handsome  dame  attended  by  her  tall,  young 
son.  They  turned  beneath  the  Bell  tower 
gateway,  and  entered  the  great  Quad- 
rangle. The  keen  November  air  had 
brought  out  an  unexpected  and  almost  ver- 
161 


Her  Son. 

nal  vividness  in  the  smooth  grass,  in  the 
centre  of  which  the  fountain  reflected  faith- 
fully the  clear  blue  of  the  sky — a  sky 
against  whose  brilliancy  the  hoary  turrets 
and  pinnacles  stood  sculptured  with  an  un- 
w^onted  distinctness. 

They  ascended  the  magnificent  stone 
staircase,  and  passed  on  into  the  stately 
hall.  The  light  fell  softly  through  the 
oriel  windows  on  the  dark,  oak  roof,  and 
the  long  lines  of  portraits  about  the  w^alls. 
Although  she  was  fairly  familiar  with  these 
distinguished  paintings,  Mrs.  Carruthers 
chose  to  be  impressed.  She  possessed  his- 
trionic talent  of  no  low  order,  and  as  she 
paused,  a  beautiful,  dignified  presence,  be- 
fore the  array  of  eminent  portraits,  there 
was  something  at  once  so  reverent  and  ad- 
miring and  sweet  in  her  attitude,  that  Eeg- 
inald  burst  forth  impetuously: 

^^You  make  it  seem  so  different,  mother. 
Although  I  dine  here  nearly  every  even- 
ing, you  make  me  feel  as  though  I  had 
never  even  been  here  before.'' 
162 


Her  Son. 

Mrs.  Carruthers  smiled. 

"Perhaps  you  never  have,  Reggie,"  she 
said,  and  with  a  gesture  full  of  infinite 
grace,  she  indicated  the  long,  dim  line  of 
paintings.  "Do  you  really  realize  what  all 
these  mean,  dear?" 

Her  heart  thrilled  with  pride  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  standing  beside  her  so 
tall  and  athletic  in  his  scholar's  gown,  with 
the  tinted  light  from  the  oriel  window  fall- 
ing softly  upon  his  brown,  debonair  head. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  beautiful,  curved 
roof  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  do,  sometimes,"  he  said;  "I  feel  ham- 
pered by  all  these  venerable  traditions. 
There  is  something  wild,  untamable,  Bohe- 
mian in  me  that  cries  out  for  the  free  field 
under  the  open  sky — where  I  may  be  my- 
self.   Have  you  never  felt  that,  mother?" 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  sighed. 

"Ah,  thai  is  merely  youth,  Eeggie.  And 
how  I  envy  you.  Think  of  the  glory  of  be- 
ing a  man — young,  healthy  and  domiciled 
at  Oxford!" 

163 


Her  Son. 

Again  that  strange  expression  of  embar- 
rassment which  was  so  foreign  to  him,  fled 
across  his  frank  face,  and  in  silence  they 
turned  to  leave  the  Hall.  As  they  were  de- 
scending the  steps,  Mrs.  Carruthers  said 
suddenly. 

^^Shall  we  not  go  down  into  the  kitchen, 
Eeggie?    I  must  see  it  again.'' 

Accordingly  they  descended  into  the  cu- 
rious, old  apartment,  and  the  white-capped, 
white-aproned  chef  could  not  do  enough  for 
this  handsome  matron  who  was  so  gra- 
ciously honoring  his  domain.  There  were 
some  three  score  fowls  turning  slowly  on 
the  quaint,  old  spit  before  the  chimney  fire, 
and  a  faint,  delicious  odor  was  beginning 
already  to  haunt  the  room. 

"Only  fancy,  Eeggie,''  said  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers, "the  same  spit  that  roasted  fowls 
for  Cardinal  Wolsey  kindly  roasting  them 
for  you!" 

The  lad  had  regained  his  usual,  light- 
hearted  demeanor. 

"You're  really  making  me  feel  quite  his- 
164 


Her  Son. 

torical,  mother/'  he  responded,  gaily. 
"Come  away  directly,  or  I  shall  begin  to 
believe  I'm  the  great  prelate  himself." 

They  sauntered  leisurely  through  the  pic- 
turesque old  cloisters  and  out  into  the  bril- 
liant sunshine  of  the  Broad  Walk.  From 
the  river  came  shouts  of  young  laughter. 
The  long  line  of  college  barges  flying  their 
various  colors  made  a  gay  scene  in  the 
golden  November  afternoon.  Handsome, 
athletic  undergraduates  with  brawny 
knees  showing  pinkly  beneath  their 
"shorts"  passed  them,  and  doffed  their  caps 
with  a  cordial  courtesy  that  silently  told 
Mrs.  Carruthers  of  the  popularity  of  her 
son. 

As  he  had  said,  she  had  changed  his 
world — the  little  world  with  which  he  had 
believed  himself  so  familiar.  He  listened, 
irresistibly  fascinated,  to  her  easy,  brilliant 
conversation  as  she  related  clever  bon  mots 
of  the  distinguished  persons  she  was  con- 
stantly meeting  in  town,  and  the  sparkling, 
cultured  language  made  him  realize  his 
165 


Her  Son. 

own  crudenesses  unexpectedly.  But  his 
mother,  serene  and  gracious,  seemed  un- 
conscious of  his  emotion,  and  anxious  only 
to  amuse  him. 

The  following  day  being  Sunday,  Mrs. 
Carruthers  told  Keggie  that  no  excuse  of 
lectures  could  be  urged  against  a  long 
walk  in  the  country. 

It  was  a  gray  day  with  a  fine,  thin  mist 
in  the  air  which,  however,  did  not  prevent 
them  from  taking  a  quiet  stroll  after  lunch- 
eon. They  went  along  the  towing-path  to 
Iflfley,  and  wandered  about  the  quaint, 
Norman  church  with  its  picturesque  archi- 
tecture, and  she  called  his  attention  to  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  the  "sweet  city  with 
her  dreaming  spires,''  as  they  saw  it 
through  the  dim,  gray  mist. 

The  cottagers,  courtesying  with  grave  re- 
spect to  this  fair  and  stately  lady,  offered 
her  huge  bunches  of  the  gay  Autumn  flow- 
ers from  the  tiny  gardens  before  their 
thatched  cottages.  Reginald's  hands  were 
full  of  bright  chrysanthemums  as  they 
166 


Her  Son. 

walked  along  the  village  street  together. 

^^Isn't  it  true,  mother/'  he  said,  hap- 
pily, "that 

*  Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood  ?  *  J* 

"Yes,  Keggie,"  she  assented,  "but  you  see 
I'm  so  very  highly  civilized  that  I  want 
both — the  kind  hearts  and  the  coronet, 
too." 

The  evening  shadows  were  beginning  to 
enfold  the  classic  beauty  of  the  town  when 
they  reached  the  "Mitre,"  and  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers  smilingly  declined  to  attend  even- 
song in  the  Cathedral. 

"You  know  what  a  sybarite  I  am,  Reg- 
gie," she  said,  "and  I  prefer  to  sit  by  the 
fire  with  the  last  novel  from  Mudies',  and 
listen  for  your  footstep  on  the  stairs.  Don't 
keep  me  waiting  long." 

But  after  he  had  left  her,  she  changed 

her  mind,  and  when  the  chimes  had  ceased 

ringing,  and  the  surpliced  undergraduates 

were  kneeling  in  the  choir  in  prayer,  she 

167 


Her  Son. 

stole  noiselessly  to  a  seat  in  a  dim  corner 
of  the  Cathedral.  Only  the  verger  noticed 
her  entrance.  From  her  obscure  niche  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  son's  broad,  sur- 
pliced  shoulders,  and  his  princely  head 
rising  conspicuously  above  those  of  his  fel- 
lows. Just  beneath  him,  and  outside  the 
choir,  separated  only  by  the  oak  partition 
and  its  broad,  iron  ornamentation,  sat  a 
slender,  dark-robed  figure  in  whom,  al- 
though she  had  never  seen  her,  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers  instinctively  recognized  the  enemy. 
The  girl  was  staring  straight  up  at  Keggie, 
and  Mrs.  Carruthers  caught  sight  of  a  deli- 
cate profile,  and  a  round,  young  face  as 
tenderly  tinted  as  the  inner  side  of  a  sea- 
shell. 

As  if  in  response  to  the  passionate  gaze 
of  those  dark  eyes,  the  girl  turned  uneasily 
and  across  the  intervening  space  their  eyes 
met.  A  pair  of  innocent,  blue  eyes  looked 
questioningly  for  a  moment  into  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers' face,  and  were  then  quickly  with- 
drawn. In  spite  of  the  girl's  undeniable 
168 


Her  Son. 

beauty  and  general  inoffensiveness,  that 
single,  rapid  glance  showed  Mrs.  Carruth- 
ers  the  hopeless  commonplaceness  of  it  all 
— that  strange,  indefinable  quality  that  dif- 
ferentiated her  completely  from  the  hand- 
some figure  towering  above  her  with  his 
regal  bearing.  , 

Mechanically  she  knelt  amid  the  kneel- 
ing worshippers.  The  caressing  voice 
reading  the  lessons  appealed  to  her  in  vain. 
She  was  deaf  to  the  sweet-voiced  choristers 
quiring  beneath  the  superb,  white  arches  of 
the  vaulted  roof.  It  fell  upon  her  ears 
only  as  a  vague,  meaningless  murmur,  un- 
til suddenly  the  glorious  harmony  was 
hushed,  and  a  boy's  voice,  pure  and  sweet 
as  that  of  a  lark  at  sunrise,  thrilled  through 
the  building: 

"He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 
seat,  and  hath  exalted  the  humble  and 
meek." 

The  choristers  caught  up  the  refrain  and 
the  vast  Cathedral  echoed  the  triumphant 
song.  Enveloped  in  her  costly  furs,  ele- 
169 


Her  Son. 

gant  and  stately  with  her  inimitable  air  of 
savoir  faire,  Mrs.  Carruthers  stood  in  her 
dim  corner,  outwardly  serene,  but  inwardly 
utterly  wretched  and  despairing.  Her 
dark,  still  beautiful  eyes  fixedly  regarded 
the  distant  head  of  her  son.  The  light 
glittered  on  his  smooth,  sunshiny  hair.  She 
could  see  one  delicate,  well-set  ear,  and  the 
Hermes-like  curve  of  his  chin  and  throat. 
The  white  surplice  fell  away  from  his 
broad  shoulders  in  full  folds  and  made 
them  seem  yet  broader. 

And  beneath  him  stood  this  young,  ple- 
beian girl,  so  pretty  and  helpless,  and  yet 
so  strangely  formidable. 

Again  the  lark-like  voice  soared  up  to 
heaven: 

"Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  de- 
part in  peace." 

The  words  penetrated  her  dulled  con- 
sciousness, and  she  answered  them  silently 
in  a  vague,  sarcastic  anger.  Depart  in 
peace,  and  her  only  son  in  such  danger! 
170 


Her  Son. 

She  almost  laughed  aloud  in  her  obscure 
corner.  The  beautiful  service  proceeded, 
but  she  failed  to  follow  it  longer.  She  was 
thinking  of  Reggie  when  he  was  a  child — 
a  tiny,  golden-haired  creature  with  sweet, 
attractive  ways — and  suddenly  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  that  far-away  child  were  near 
and  real,  and  Eeggie's  own,  and  she,  its 
grandmother,  again  loving  and  dreaming 
over  it.  But  with  a  sharp  and  sudden 
pain,  she  realized  that  another  grandmoth- 
er had  an  equal  claim  with  hers,  a  good- 
natured,  plebeian  grandmother  who  would 
teach  the  child  dissimulation  and  deceit, 
and  she  saw^  a  cunning,  crafty  look  creep 
into  the  hitherto  innocent  eyes  of  this  fic- 
tions baby  who  seemed  so  real. 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  prayed  a 
passionate,  wordless  prayer  for  comfort 
and  help.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  service 
she  hurried  across  the  big,  dark  Quadran- 
gle, dimly  lit  by  its  globes  of  yellow  gas- 
light here  and  there.  The  place  was  filled 
with  white-robed  undergraduates  and  sob- 
in 


Her  Son. 

erly-clad  citizens.  From  the  tower  rang 
out  the  sweet-toned  chimes,  and  their  light 
music  was  suddenly  broken  by  six,  deep, 
booming  strokes  of  Old  Tom. 

Beneath  the  dark,  stone  gateway  Mrs. 
Carruthers  paused,  and  sent  a  swift,  fright- 
ened glance  into  the  Quadrangle.  People 
were  still  issuing  from  the  entrance  of  the 
Cathedral.  She  heard  the  murmur  of 
voices  through  the  frosty  air.  Sauntering 
leisurely  toward  her  came  her  son  with  his 
landlady's  daughter. 


When  the  engagement  of  Lady  Sybil 
Barrington  to  Mr.  Reginald  Carruthers  was 
announced  at  his  Club,  Colonel  Carruthers 
bit  his  lip  to  conceal  his  emotion.  He  got 
away  from  the  cordial  congratulations  of 
his  friends  as  soon  as  possible.  He  wanted 
to  be  by  himself  a  bit  in  order  to  recover. 
He  was  in  a  partially  dazed  condition,  for 
Lady  Sybil  was  undoubtedly  the  most  bril- 
liant match  of  the  season. 
172 


Her  Son. 

^^By  Jove,  she's  a  clever  woman!''  he  re- 
flected, admiringly;  ^4n  fact,  quite  as  clever 
as  a  man.  .  .  .  Egad,  I'd  like  to  know 
how  she  managed  it!" 


173 


Poison  Flowers. 


175 


Poison-Flowers. 


I. 


VAN  RENSSELAER  leaned  idly 
across  the  polished,  oak  railing  of 
his  trim  little  yacht  ^^Nausicaa/'  and 
said  good-bye  to  one  of  his  particular,  pet 
convictions.  He  had  always  held  that  a 
man  was  master  of  his  own  fate  within 
reasonable  limits,  and,  until  recently,  his 
belief  had  stood  the  test  of  experience;  in- 
deed, the  circumstances  of  his  life  had 
seemed  emphatically  to  justify  his  creed, 
but  if  any  one  had  told  him  a  week  before 
that  in  seven,  short  days  he  would  be  sail- 
ing up  the  Sound  on  his  wedding  journey, 
he  would  have  stared  at  so  reckless  a  per- 
son in  undisguised  astonishment,  and  ad- 
vised medical  assistance.  He  had  always 
177 


Poison  Flowers. 

laughed  at  love;  he  argued  that  it  was 
merely  a  nervous,  mental  disorder  entirely 
at  the  control  of  the  patient,  and  he  was 
wont  to  quote  Shakespeare  with  great  ef- 
fect to  skeptical  friends,  usually  ending  a 
discussion  with  a  triumphant  silencing  of 
all  opposition.  He  believed  himself  thor- 
oughly, and  felt  a  superb  defiance  of  Cupid 
and  his  arrows,  and  a  tender,  half-cynical 
indulgence  for  those  who  were  less  strong 
than  himself — but  this  was  before  he  had 
met  Eleanor  Graham. 

She  had  been  a  saleswoman  in  a  large, 
drygoods  establishment  in  New  York,  and 
Remington  had  first  seen  her  during  the 
preliminaries  of  a  trifling  purchase.  She 
had  a  trick  of  lowering  her  eyelids,  and  it 
was  not  until  she  offered  him  his  parcel 
that  he  realized  her  beauty.  However, 
when  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  their  dark, 
sweet  splendor  flashed  full  upon  his  daz- 
zled vision,  he  surrendered  uncondition- 
ally. He  forgot  that  he  was  the  last  of  the 
Van  Eensselaers,  and  that  she  was  a  hum- 
178 


Poison  Flowers. 

ble,  unknown  clerk;  he  forgot  everything 
except  that  those  magnificent  eyes  were 
smiling  across  a  heterogeneous  collection 
of  collars  straight  into  his  own,  and  a  pair 
of  red,  amused  lips  were  asking  whether 
he  wished  the  tiny  parcel  sent  to  his  ad- 
dress. 

Van  Rensselaer's  fine  Dutch  ancestry 
expressed  itself  in  him  in  a  remarkable  res- 
olution. He  discovered  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  his  inamorata,  and  lost  no  time  in 
securing  an  introduction  to  her.  He  wooed 
her  with  such  passionate  and  characteristic 
persistence,  that  in  a  week  from  the  time 
he  had  met  her,  they  had  been  quietly  mar- 
ried, and  were  off  for  an  indefinite  cruise 
in  his  yacht. 

The  marriage  announcement  created 
quite  a  sensation  among  his  friends.  Peo- 
ple shook  their  heads  wisely,  and  said  that 
it  was  the  result  of  his  early  orphanage; 
what  could  be  expected  of  a  person  who 
had  been  brought  up  on  such  laissez  faire 
methods  which  were  really  no  methods  at 
179 


Poison  Flowers/ 

all.  He  had  always  had  his  own  way,  and 
that  was  an  especially  dangerous  experi- 
ment for  a  person  with  so  opulent  an  in- 
come as  Van  Eensselaer's. 

Remington  himself  had  always  said  that 
he  was  virtuous  only  in  a  negative  sort  of 
way — because  he  felt  no  temptation  to  be 
otherwise.  He  was  too  innately  refined  to 
feel  the  allurement  of  vice,  and  he  had 
never  experienced  the  misery  of  unsatisfied 
desire,  for  the  reason  that  his  desires  were 
of  a  nature  wholly  within  his  power  of  grat- 
ification. He  was  not  ambitious  in  a 
worldly  sense,  but  his  natural  ability  had 
secured  him  many  prizes.  He  himself  had 
felt  a  genuine  surprise  when  it  became 
known  that  he  was  at  the  top  of  his  class  at 
Harvard,  and  he  remarked  that  it  was 
merely  a  happy  accident.  He  considered  it 
also  a  happy  accident  that  a  series  of  es- 
says on  literary  subjects  had  been  pub- 
lished at  the  suggestion  of  a  professor,  and 
had  met  with  immediate  success.  But  al- 
though he  himself  regarded  his  prosperity 
180 


Poison  Flowers. 

as  purely  fortuitous,  those  who  had  known 
the  intellectual  brilliancy  of  the  family  for 
generations,  thought  otherwise.  These 
persons  said  that  Remington  Van  Eensse- 
laer  did  not  appreciate  sufficiently  the  re- 
sponsibilitj^  of  being  the  last  of  a  race 
whose  traditions  were  unusually  pure.  They 
censured  him  as  a  man  whose  tendencies 
were  plebeianly  iconoclastic,  and  when 
they  learned  of  his  sudden  and  eccentric 
marriage,  they  shook  their  heads  appre- 
hensively. 

But  Eemington  told  himself  that  the 
world  was  well  lost.  He  was  superlatively 
happy  as  he  leaned  over  the  railing  of  his 
yacht  and  watched  the  water,  blue  and 
calm  elsewhere,  churned  into  a  foamy 
whiteness  beneath  him.  He  was  in  an  idly 
speculative  humor,  born  of  the  caressing 
June  breeze,  and  the  poetic  beauty  of  the 
scene  about  him,  and  he  fell  to  musing  on 
the  curiously  unexpected  and  trivial 
causes  which  were  responsible  for  human 
failure  or  success.  There  was  a  pathetic 
18X 


Poison  Flowers. 

significance,  he  reflected,  in  the  fact  that 
the  salvation  of  Kome  was  once  dependent 
on  the  cackling  of  geese,  and  that  the  woe 
of  all  the  world  could  be  definitely  traced 
back  as  far  as  the  beginning  of  time,  and 
located  in  a  tiny  apple  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden — an  apple  confidently  asserted  to 
have  been  no  larger  than  the  modern  crab- 
apple.  And  then  he  began  to  wonder 
vaguely  whether  it  were  accident  or  design 
on  the  part  of  Destiny  that  had  led  him 
into  the  big  drapery  shop  only  a  week  be- 
fore— an  action  which  had  altered  so  com- 
pletely the  whole  course  of  his  life. 

The  swiftly  rushing  water  beneath  his 
gaze  was  suddenly  shut  from  his  dreamy, 
questioning  eyes  by  a  pair  of  small  but  de- 
termined hands. 

^^Guess  me,"  said  a  gay  voice. 

"Ah,  Sweetheart,"  he  answered,  "what 
ages  you  have  been  gone." 

She  released  him,  and  he  immediately 
employed  his  recovered  vision  in  appropri- 
ating her  loveliness.  Surely  he  might  be 
183 


Poison  Flowers." 

pardoned  for  loving  so  beautiful  a  creature. 
She  wore  a  simple  gown  of  some  delicate 
fabric  which  revealed  the  faint  pink  of  her 
perfect  arms  and  throat.  A  silver  girdle 
which  he  had  given  her  clasped  her  slender 
waist,  and  there  was  a  silver  dagger  in  her 
dark  hair.  To  Remington's  fascinated  vis- 
ion, Idalian  Aphrodite  herself  could  not 
have  seemed  more  radiantly  beautiful  when 
she  sprang  lightly  from  the  foam  of  the 
ocean. 

"Are  you  sure  you  missed  me?"  she  ques- 
tioned, with  a  smile  whose  wonderful,  sub- 
tle sweetness  thrilled  him  with  joy.  "Some- 
times, Remington,  I  am  jealous — your 
world  is  so  different  from  mine — ^your 
thoughts  and  feelings  are  different,  and 
they  take  you  where  I  cannot  follow,  and 
it  makes  me  feel  lonely  even  while  I  am 
with  you.'' 

For  answer  he  drew  down  the  young, 
fresh  loveliness  of  her  face  to  his,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

The  "Nausicaa"  cruised  about  the  Sound 
183 


Poison  Flowers^ 

for  several  weeks,  touching  here  and  there 
for  supplies.  If  young  Mrs.  Van  Kensse- 
laer  grew  weary  of  the  monotonously  quiet 
life,  she  gave  no  sign.  She  was  always  ra- 
diantly beautiful,  and  always  in  the  gay- 
est spirits. 

They  were  sitting  together  one  evening 
on  deck  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  peace- 
ful twilight  about  them.  There  was  still 
a  faint  bar  of  red  in  the  w^est  which  marked 
where  the  sun  had  descended.  High  up  in 
the  heavens  rode  a  triumphant,  young 
moon  with  a  few  dim,  attendant  stars. 
Kemington  glanced  at  his  wife;  her  charm- 
ing face  was  uplifted  to  the  sky. 

**  *  Silently,  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite   meadows  of 
heave  , 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the 
angels,*  " 

he  quoted  softly. 

She   turned   quickly   toward   him,    and 
there  was  an  embarrassed  expression  upon 
her  face.    He  had  begun  to  notice  this  ex- 
184 


Poison  Flowers. 

pression  whenever  he  departed  from  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  of  ordinary  con- 
versation. 

^^How  could  stars  possibly  be  flowers, 
Eemington,"  she  remarked  with  a  mild 
scorn;  ^^the  idea!" 

She  had  told  him  her  short,  pathetic  his- 
tory; how  she  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
foundling  asylum  in  complete  ignorance  of 
her  parentage;  how  she  had  secured  a  fair 
education  in  the  grammar  school,  being 
able  to  read  and  write  correctly,  and  how 
she  had  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her  life 
as  a  saleswoman  in  shops;  she  w^as  quite 
proud  that  she  had  held  her  last  position 
for  three  years. 

He  was  too  intelligent  to  expect  literary 
appreciation  from  her  at  this  early  stage, 
but  he  promised  himself  a  rare  and  inter- 
esting enjoyment  in  developing  her  latent 
talent;  for  he  believed  more  firmly  in  the 
power  of  environment  than  in  heredity,  and 
he  told  himself  that  when  once  they  were 
fairly  established  at  ^^Greymere,"  his  fine 
185 


Poison  Flowers. 

country  place  upon  the  Hudson,  he  would 
begin  the  scientific  and  serious  method  of 
her  education.  He  had  visions  of  revealing 
to  her  the  beauties  of  classic  literature,  and 
meanwhile  he  surrendered  himself  abso- 
lutely to  the  luxury  of  pure  physical  en- 
joyment. 

If  sometimes  there  lurked  in  his  cup  of 
joy  a  suspicion  that  his  happiness  was  in- 
complete, and  merely  transitory,  he  in- 
stantly banished  these  thoughts  as  un- 
worthy and  untrue.  He  was  a  willing  pris- 
oner in  the  bond  of  a  smile,  and  the  dear 
enchantment  of  a  pair  of  lustrous,  dark 
eyes. 


IL 

The  wind  caught  up  the  freshly  fallen 
snow,  and  whirled  it  about  in  wild,  white 
wheels  impalpable  as  smoke.  Van  Kens- 
selaer  buttoned  his  furred  coat  closer 
about  his  throat  as  he  descended  the  stone 
steps  at  "Greymere"  into  the  storm.  The 
186 


Poison  Flowers. 

wind  welcomed  him  madly  with  a  blind- 
ing dash  of  flying  snowflakes;  they  stung 
his  eyes,  and  powdered  thickly  his  yellow 
beard,  but  he  experienced  only  a  distinct 
delight  in  battling  with  the  rough  ele- 
ments, and  feeling  himself  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  storm.  The  grey,  tempestuous  after- 
noon was  in  strict  accord  with  his  mood. 
He  appreciated  a  silent  sympathy  in  the 
savage  tumult;  a  subtle  response  that  he 
would  have  missed  regretfully  had  the  som- 
bre sky  been  blue  and  brilliant  with  sun- 
shine. 

The  ancient  care-taker  at  "Greymere," 
who  had  served  the  family  for  years, 
watched  with  a  vague  apprehension  the 
tall  figure  of  her  master  disappear  down 
the  driveway.  She  was  only  partially  sat- 
isfied when  he  had  explained  his  sudden 
appearance  on  the  ground  of  a  desire  to 
assure  himself  that  the  place  was  in  good 
condition.  Eumors  had  penetrated  even  to 
the  quiet  little  village  on  the  Hudson  of 
the  gay,  frivolous  life  of  young  Mrs.  Van 
187 


Poison  Flowers. 

Eensselaer,  and  as  the  old  retainer  looked 
after  the  retreating  figure  of  her  master, 
she  wiped  a  furtive  tear  from  her  eye. 

Van  Rensselaer  strode  rapidly  through 
the  village  street  out  into  the  surrounding 
country.  He  was  conscious  only  of  an  in- 
definite sense  of  kinship  with  the  storm  and 
of  an  irresistible  impulse  to  action.  He 
struck  out  aimlessly  across  the  broad, 
snow-covered  meadows,  and  it  was  not  un- 
til the  wind  had  ceased,  and  the  snow  was 
no  longer  falling,  that  his  truant  conscious- 
ness returned.  Mechanically  he  glanced  at 
his  w^atch,  and  realized  with  surprise  that 
two  hours  had  elapsed  since  he  had  quitted 
^^Greymere."  All  about  him  lay  the  wide, 
white  world  in  an  unbroken  silence  except 
for  the  swift,  sudden  flight  of  a  bird,  or  the 
occasional  scampering  of  a  rabbit.  He 
glanced  backward  at  the  long,  irregular 
line  of  his  footsteps  in  the  soft  snow,  and 
wondered  whether  any  one  else  would  ever 
see  them,  and,  divining  the  loneliness  they 
expressed,  pity  him.  He  saw  the  distant 
188 


Poison  Flowers. 

spires  and  roofs  of  the  village  silhouetted 
against  the  evening  sky,  and  remembered 
where  he  was.  The  dull,  uniform  grey  of 
the  clouds  had  gradually  dispersed,  and 
through  the  parted  rifts  broke  superb 
glimpses  of  the  winter  sunset.  The  tall, 
solitary  figure  paused  in  its  rapid  stride, 
and  hungrily  watched  the  sudden  splen- 
dor of  the  heavens  fade  as  swiftly  as  it  had 
come.  A  sense  of  peacefulness  stole  over 
him.  Why  might  he  not  regard  that  unex- 
pected and  beautiful  sunset  as  an  omen? 
Let  the  turbulent  past  perish  with  the 
storm,  and  the  ruby  and  golden  light  be 
a  divine  prophecy  of  the  future. 

He  consulted  his  watch,  and  found  that 
he  had  yet  time  to  take  an  express  train 
which  would  bring  him  to  New  York  in 
time  to  dine  with  his  wife,  and  suddenly  he 
became  as  anxious  to  leave  the  village  as 
he  had  been  eager  to  welcome  it  but  a 
few  short  hours  before.  As  the  train  bore 
him  back  to  the  city,  he  subjected  himself 
to  a  severe  self-analysis.  He  reproached 
189 


Poison  Flowers. 

himself  as  the  victim  of  civilization.  Too 
much  culture  had  made  him  over-fastidious 
and  critical.  He  spent  altogether  too  much 
time  in  his  library  over  books.  It  was  not 
life,  but  a  mere,  spiritless  imitation  of  ex- 
istence. He  had  been  too  harsh  with  his 
young,  untrained  wife — -too  forgetful  of  her 
youth  and  inexperience.  A  forgotten  ep- 
isode rose  from  his  memory  and  stung  him. 
They  were  together  in  his  library,  that  rare 
room  which  meant  so  much  to  him,  and  so 
little  to  her,  and  he  discovered  that  she  had 
not  read  the  books  he  had  requested  her. 
He  recalled  his  stern  words  of  censure  and 
disapproval.  She  had  turned  her  flower- 
like face  toward  him,  and  there  had  been  a 
strange  expression,  half-hatred,  half-fear 
in  her  dark,  passionate  eyes.  In  a  burst  of 
childish  anger  she  had  told  him  she  no 
longer  loved  him,  and  had  rushed  stormily 
from  the  room.  He  had  accepted  the  situa- 
tion with  as  much  philosophy  as  was  pos- 
sible to  him,  but  he  had  abandoned  his  role 
of  mentor.  The  world  with  its  phenomenal 
190 


Poison  Flowers. 

intuition  guessed  at  the  total  lack  of  sym- 
pathj^  and  affection  between  the  Van  Rens- 
selaers,  but  as  they  entertained  royally, 
and  paid  a  decent  respect  to  les  covenances, 
Society  forbore  to  gossip  over  their  un- 
happy domestic  relations. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  w^hen  Eemington  re- 
entered his  home.  They  usually  dined  at 
eight,  and  he  stole  noiselessly  upstairs  to 
his  dressing-room.  He  was  almost  light- 
hearted  again  as  he  made  his  careful  toilet, 
for  he  had  determined  to  go  to  his  wife,  and 
plead  for  some  understanding,  some  ex- 
planation that  should  relieve  the  dull  mis- 
ery of  their  existence.  No  doubt  he  him- 
self was  in  a  large  part  to  blame,  even 
though  so  unintentionally;  if  he  had  erred 
ignorantly,  perhaps  she  would  be  frank 
with  him,  showing  him  wherein  he  had 
failed,  and  forgive  him. 

He  found  her  in  her  dressing-room,  lying 
asleep  on  a  luxurious  couch  of  grey  velvet 
made  soft  with  silken  cushions.  Her  tall 
191 


Poison  Flowers. 

figure  was  clad  in  a  loose  gown  of  some 
clinging,  black  material  which  defined  in 
exquisite  relief  the  gracious  outlines  of  her 
form.  Her  beautiful,  sensuous  face  wore 
an  expression  of  almost  childish  innocence 
in  the  abandonment  of  sleep.  One  hand 
still  held  open  a  book  which  Eemington 
recognized  with  a  shiver  of  disgust  as  a 
translation  of  a  highly-spiced  French  novel 
of  the  modern  school  of  realism.  Near  at 
hand  stood  a  small  table  laden  with  an 
empty  champagne  bottle,  and  some  cigar- 
ettes. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  upon  her  the 
fringed  lids  slowly  lifted  as  if  in  answer 
to  his  gaze,  and  those  brilliantly-splendid 
eyes  which  seemed  to  mean  so  much,  and  in 
reality  meant  so  little,  sparkled  with  dark 
magnificence  up  into  his  own.  The  expres- 
sion of  dreamy  tenderness  in  their  velvet 
depths  vanished  as  she  recognized  her  hus- 
band.   A  cynical  smile  curved  her  lips. 

"Only  you,  Remington?"  she  said,  with 
193 


Poison  Flowers. 

a  half-scornful  wonder.  "I  thought  it 
might  be  ...  " 

She  did  not  announce  her  conjecture;  she 
was  too  surprised  to  complete  the  sentence, 
for  he  had  fallen  upon  his  knees  beside  her, 
and  she  felt  his  hot  tears  upon  her  hand. 

^^Eleanor,"  he  whispered,  brokenly,  "if 
we  have  made  a  mistake,  it  is  not  yet  too 
late  for  reparation;  let  us  forgive  and  for- 
get what  has  passed,  and  begin  life  again 
together." 

She  raised  herself  slowly  upon  her  el- 
bow, and  gazed  at  him  in  unfeigned  aston- 
ishment; then  she  laughed  slightly. 

"You  must  be  mad,  Kemington,"  she  said 
at  length,  "and  since  I  have  overslept,  and 
shall  be  late  dressing  for  dinner,  will  not 
you  kindly  ring  for  Finette?" 

Her  voice  was  sweet,  but  cold  as  an  ici- 
cle, and  without  a  word  he  obeyed  her. 


III. 

It  was  six  months  since  Van  Rensselaer 
had    startled    the    ancient    care-taker    at 
193 


Poison  Flowers. 

'^Greymere''  by  his  sudden  appearance  on 
that  stormy  December  morning.  There 
was  little  to  remind  him  now  of  his  hasty 
and  unconventional  visit.  The  smooth 
lawns  were  brilliant  with  flower-beds  and 
down  the  graveled  driveway  a  gay  caval- 
cade was  riding,  composed  of  certain  mem- 
bers of  the  frivolous,  '^smart''  set  whom 
Mrs.  Van  Kensselaer  particularly  affected. 
She  herself  led  the  procession,  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever,  and  riding  her  spirited  bay 
cob  with  admirable  ease  and  self-posses- 
sion. By  her  side  rode  a  young  and  well- 
known  clubman,  more  distinguished  for  his 
wealth  than  his  brains. 

The  merry  company  had  scarcely  disap- 
peared before  a  young  girl  approached  the 
house  from  the  river  side.  She  was  a  tall 
girl  with  a  bright,  interesting  face,  and  she 
walked  across  the  short  grass  with  a  light 
step  indicative  of  health  and  good  spirits. 
A  housemaid  was  arranging  the  disorder 
of  the  veranda,  and  the  young  girl  paused 
to  question  her. 

194 


Poison  Flowers. 

"Is  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  at  home?'' 

"No,  Miss  Dorothy,  there's  no  one  at 
home  except  the  master." 

"And  where  is  he?" 

"In  his  study,  where  he  bez  mostly  now- 
adays," said  the  maid. 

Miss  Hamilton  entered  the  cool  darkness 
of  the  great  hallway,  and  slowly  mounted 
the  wide  staircase  to  her  cousin's  study. 
Since  his  marriage  Van  Rensselaer  spent 
the  greater  portion  of  his  time  in  this  apart- 
ment, which  possessed  the  double  advan- 
tage of  being  remote  from  the  gay  life  of 
the  mansion,  and  also  difficult  of  access. 

As  Dorothy  entered  he  turned  to  greet 
her  with  a  smile.  He  was  very  fond  of 
his  young  cousin,  and  they  had  been  close 
comrades  until  the  last  few  years,  during 
which  time  Dorothy  had  lived  abroad  com- 
pleting her  education.  Remington  had 
missed  her  sadly,  for  she  had  been  the  jol- 
liest  little  companion  imaginable,  and  her 
recent  return  had  given  him  more  pleasure 
than  he  had  believed  possible;  for  he  had 
196 


Poison  Flowers. 

begun  to  tell  himself  that  he  and  joy  had 
bidden  one  another  farewell  forever.  He 
was  desperately  lonely  and  unhappy  in  his 
beautiful  and  hospitable  mansion  since  the 
guests  with  whom  his  young  wife  cared  to 
surround  herself  were  not  at  all  to  his  lik- 
ing, and  he  found  himself  more  and  more 
solitary  as  the  days  progressed. 

^^ Where  is  Eleanor?''  asked  Dorothy. 

"Every  one  has  gone  to  ride.'' 

"And  why  are  not  you  riding  too?  It 
is  a  charming  day." 

"Because  I  must  agree  with  Traddles, 
Dorothy.  You  will  remember  he  once  said 
^the  society  of  girls  is  a  very  delightful 
thing,  Copperfield — it's  not  professional, 
but  it's  very  delightful.'  Now  this  morn- 
ing Destiny  has  been  lying  in  wait  for  me 
with  the  proof  sheets  of  a  perfectly  inexora- 
ble and  irrational  publisher." 

"This  is  a  very  cold,  unfeeling  world," 
said  Dorothy,  "and  you  have  my  sympathy 
— even  to  the  extent  of  tearing  myself 
away." 

196    . 


Poison  Flowers. 

"It  would  be  more  cousinly  to  stay  and 
offer  to  assist  the  laborer." 

"Oh,  may  I,  Kemington?  I  would  just 
love  it." 

She  removed  her  hat,  and  made  herself 
comfortable  in  the  quaint,  book-lined  room. 
The  man  who  had  said  good-bye  to  happi- 
ness felt  a  rare  content  in  the  presence  of 
his  young  assistant.  She  seconded  him  so 
ably  in  correcting  proof  that  the  imposing- 
pile  of  copy  was  rapidly  reduced  in  size 
until  at  last  it  lay  in  a  big,  square  parcel 
ready  for  the  postman. 

Van  Eensselaer  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  at  the  young  girl  opposite  him. 
Dear,  kind  little  Dorothy!  She  had  lost 
none  of  that  charming,  childish  naivete 
which  had  made  her  so  fascinating  a  com- 
panion in  the  by-gone  years.  He  realized 
dimly  that  travel  had  transformed  her  in 
a  sense  into  a  young  woman  of  the  world, 
but  he  knew  intuitively  that  beneath  her 
Paris  gown  beat  a  heart  as  sweet  and  gen- 
uine as  of  old. 

197 


Poison  Flowers. 

"I  am  going  to  be  very  bold,  Reming- 
ton/' she  said  suddenly,  "but  I  am  anxious 
to  learn  what  has  become  of  the  Van  Rens- 
selaer mahogany.  Of  course,  the  drawing- 
room  is  much  more  modern  in  white  and 
gold,  but  I  miss  the  dear,  quaint,  old  furni- 
ture." 

"It  is  Eleanor's  idea — refurnishing  the 
house,"  he  answered,  slowly.  He  did  not 
mention  the  fact  of  his  ignorance  of  the  af- 
fair until  the  tradesmen's  bills  were  pre- 
sented, but  she  guessed  at  something  of  the 
truth  in  his  evident  and  embarrassed  hesi- 
tation. 

"And  have  all  the  old-fashioned  flowers 
gone  also?"  she  went  on.  "I  used  to  love 
the  rows  of  hollyhocks  and  sweet  peas. 
And  surely.  Remington,  the  honeysuckle 
and  roses  were  far  daintier  and  cooler  than 
those  gay  awnings  on  the  verandas." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  still  with  that  pain- 
ful hesitation  w^hich  was  so  unusual  with 
him.     "You  are  quite  right.  Dorothy.       I 
prefer  roses  myself." 
198 


Poison  Flowers. 

A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  them;  through 
the  parted  silken  curtains  flashed  brilliant 
glimpses  of  the  blue  Hudson,  rippling 
peacefully  against  the  willows  at  the  end 
of  the  garden.  The  beautiful,  June  day 
was  full  of  glad  life;  the  sunlight  was  like 
a  benediction.  Van  Rensselaer  leaned 
across  the  table,  and  seized  Dorothy's  slen- 
der, ink-marked  fingers  in  his  strong  clasp. 

"You  seem  so  happy,  Dorothy,"  he  said. 
"Teach  me  how  to  be  happy,  too  ...  I 
have  been  wretched  so  long." 

"Oh,  Eemington,"  she  cried,  and  her 
brown,  half-frightened  eyes  looked  pity- 
ingly  into  his  own.  "I  suspected  some- 
thing of  this,  but  I  did  not  dream  it  was 
so  bad." 

And  under  the  charm  of  her  friendly 
and  delicate  compassion,  he  told  her  the 
story  of  his  suffering  and  disappointment. 
Of  his  wife's  dislike  and  faithlessness  to- 
ward him  he  said  little;  it  was  rather  a  cry 
of  bitter,  passionate  regret  over  his  own 
mistakes. 

199 


Poison  Flowers. 

Dorothy  listened  in  a  species  of  fas- 
cinated horror.  Eemington  had  always 
been  her  ideal  hero.  No  one  else  was  so 
brilliantly  clever,  and  so  beloved  of  the 
gods.  She  had  seen  little  of  Mrs.  Van 
Rensselaer,  but  the  fact  that  she  was  Eem- 
ington's  wife  had  cast  a  glamor  over  her 
remarkable  loveliness,  and  the  young  girl 
had  been  prepared  to  w^orship  her.  As  her 
cousin  related  the  history  of  his  unhappi- 
ness,  Dorothy  felt  herself  flush  with  angry 
resentment. 

"She  is  only  a  beautiful  animal,"  she 
thought,  indignantly,  "she  has  no  soul." 

And  so  these  two — the  man  disheartened 
and  almost  hopeless,  the  girl  at  the  dawn 
of  an  exquisite  womanhood,  and  full  of  the 
fresh,  eager  illusions  of  youth — set  forth  to- 
gether in  quest  of  a  denied  happiness.  It 
was  a  dangerous  experiment,  but  in  the  ig- 
norance of  innocence,  they  felt  strong. 


200 


Poison  Flowers. 
IV. 

It  was  June  again,  early  June,  enthroned 
like  a  queen  upon  the  young  meadows  so 
blue  and  fragrant  with  violets.  The  birds 
were  quiring  with  all  their  might  to  the 
honor  of  the  youthful  sovereign  whose 
reign  though  sweet,  must  be  so  short. 
There  seemed  no  note  of  discord  in  the 
fresh  and  perfect  loveliness  of  the  day. 

Van  Rensselaer  walked  with  a  light  and 
rapid  stride  across  the  dewy  fields.  The 
long  struggle  with  himself  was  at  an  end. 
He  had  a  vague  impression  of  the  perfumed 
beauty  of  the  apple  tree  beneath  whose 
blossom-laden  boughs  she  was  standing — 
of  the  wide  sweep  of  the  gracious  blue 
heavens  above  them,  but'  he  was  keenly 
conscious  only  of  her. 

^'Dorothy!'' 

It  was  scarcely  a  whisper,  but  she  heard 
him.  She  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  tangle 
of  wild  flowers  she  was  arranging,  and  as 
201 


Poison  Flowers. 

she  met  the  passionate,  eager  glance,  the 
little  bouquet  fell  unheeded  to  the  ground. 
Pity  and  love  for  him  painted  themselves 
on  her  round  cheeks,  and  with  a  woman's 
lightning  intuition,  she  anticipated  what 
was  about  to  occur,  and  made  a  futile  at- 
tempt to  speak,  but  he  interrupted  her. 

^^You  cannot  say  anything  that  I  have 
not  already  said  to  myself  a  thousand 
times,"  he  said.  "God  alone  knows  what 
I  have  suffered,  and  what  a  struggle  it  has 
been.  I  have  tried  to  go  away  ...  I  have 
tried  honestly  to  forget  ...  I  have  even 
tried  like  a  coward  to  die  .  .  .  but  love  is 
stronger  than  I,  Dorothy  .  .  .1  am 
conquered  ...  I  love  you  ...  Do  you 
realize  it,  dear?  .  .  .  you  have  my  happi- 
ness in  your  keeping  .  .  .  not  only  happi- 
ness, but  life  itself  .  .  .  You  are  too  kind 
and  pitiful  to  despise  me,  Dorothy,  but 
even  if  you  did,  I  am  beyond  caring  .  .  . 
you  see,  how  low  I  have  sunk  .  .  .  I  do 
not  even  care  .  .  .  There  is  only  one  thing 
I  care  for  now  in  all  the  world  .  •  .  your 


Poison  Flowers. 

love,  Sweetheart.  .  .  .  Are  you  brave 
enough  to  defy  Destiny  .  .  .  and  for  me?" 

He  made  no  effort  to  approach  her  as  she 
stood  with  frightened,  fascinated  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  staring  full  at  him.  The  color 
had  faded  from  her  face,  and  she  seemed 
frozen  into  a  statuesque  silence. 

^^Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Dorothy?"  he 
questioned,  sadly.  His  voice  had  the  low, 
monotonous  tone  of  despair;  his  handsome 
troubled  eyes  regarded  her  sorrowfully. 
She  could  not  bear  their  gaze,  and  with  a 
long,  shivering  breath  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

^^It  is  not  you  that  I  am  afraid  of,  Eem- 
ington  .  .  .  it  is  myself.  Oh,  why  must  it 
be  so  wrong  to  love  you?" 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  the  tears 
were  rushing  down  her  cheeks.  He 
stretched  his  arms  toward  her,  and  slowly 
she  took  the  few  steps  across  the  grass  be- 
tween them,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
breast.  It  was  the  golden  moment  of 
which  he  had  dreamed  all  his  life;  the  mo- 
203 


Poison  Flowers, 
ment  to  which  he  would  say  with  eager 
longing,  ^'Ah,  still  delay,  thou  art  so  fair.-' 
His  soul  concentrated  itself  into  the  rap- 
ture of  that  instant  when  her  head,  inno- 
cent and  lovely,  rested  upon  his  breast  in 
a  divine  trustfulness.  He  felt  the  rapid 
beating  of  her  heart,  and  his  own  an- 
swered it. 

^^Eemington,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes 
looked  up  into  his  with  a  fearless  direct- 
ness, "I  am  going  home  now,  and  I  don't 
know  which  way  I  am  going  to  decide.  I 
shall  let  you  know  this  evening — but  I 
want  you  to  remember  that  whichever  way 
it  is — right  or  wrong — it  is  because  I  love 
you.  Promise  me  you  will  never  forget 
that  it  is  because  I  love  you." 

He  stood  watching  her  as  she  went  away 
from  him.  His  heart  was  beating  with  a 
strange,  thrilling  triumph.  ^^Because  she 
loved  him!"  He  threw  himself  at  full 
length  on  the  soft  grass;  near  at  hand  lay 
the  flowers  she  had  forgotten;  they  seemed 

204: 


Poison  Flowers. 

to  repeat  her  parting  message  to  him,  and 
he  placed  them  carefully  in  his  coat. 

How  sentient  with  glad  life  the  young 
world  seemed!  The  birds  were  congratu- 
lating him;  he  detected  it  in  their  high, 
sweet  notes.  A  vagrant  breeze  scattered  a 
shower  of  belated  apple  blossoms  down 
upon  him,  and  he  revelled  in  the  fragrant 
caress  of  the  petals  against  his  face.  He 
was  astonished  to  find  himself  capable  of 
so  great  happiness,  and  he  acknowledged 
that  above  all  else  he  wanted  happiness — 
and  at  any  cost.  He  was  beyond  caring 
for  anything  else  now,  and  he  felt  a  proud 
scorn  of  the  consequences. 

But  across  the  consciousness  of  his  bliss 
floated  the  recollection  of  his  wife.  He 
knew  that  she  would  hail  a  legal  separa- 
tion from  him  with  passionate  relief.  From 
the  proud  eminence  which  his  position  had 
afforded  her,  she  had  succeeded  in  secur- 
ing a  far  wealthier  devotee  than  himself. 
Yet  the  humiliating  details  of  a  divorce 
cut  his  pride  like  a  sharp-edged  sword. 
205 


Poison  Flowers. 

Was  it  only  three  years  since  his  unhappy 
marriage?  Had  only  "three  April  per- 
fumes in  three  hot  Junes  burned''  since  he 
had  given  the  best  of  his  ardent,  young 
manhood  into  the  careless  custody  of  a 
woman  who  had  never  loved  him,  but  had 
used  her  magnificent  gift  of  beauty  to  al- 
lure and  deceive  him?  It  seemed  rather 
like  three  centuries,  and  for  the  moment 
he  realized  himself  old  and  incapable 
longer  of  those  delightful,  lost  illusions 
which  had  vanished  so  mysteriously  with 
his  youth. 

But  he  put  away  resolutely  all  vexa- 
tious thoughts,  and  yielded  himself  abso- 
lutely to  the  intoxication  of  joy.  A  cloud 
of  yellow  butterflies  hovered  audaciously 
near  him  as  he  lay  motionless  upon  the 
grass;  a  bumble  bee,  industrious  and  fear- 
less, harvested  honey  from  the  pink  clover 
beside  him.  He  gazed  up  at  the  flawless, 
azure  sky,  and  a  great  gratitude  burned 
like  an  altar-flame  in  his  heart. 

"  *  Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best  ?" 
206 


Poison  Flowers. 

he  quoted  softly  to  the  birds  and  flowers 
and  sky. 


Dorothy  sat  in  her  quaint,  dimity-hung 
bedroom.  There  was  no  one  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  aid  and  advice  in  this,  the 
crisis  of  her  happy  life.  Her  father  was  still 
in  Europe,  and  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Suydam — 
who  had  presided  over  the  establishment 
ever  since  the  death  of  Dorothy's  mother — 
was  too  thorough  a  woman  of  the  world  to 
be  of  use  to  the  girl  in  her  decision. 

She  was  in  an  exalted  mood  of  love,  pity 
and  renunciation,  for  she  had  determined 
to  give  up  her  cousin,  even  at  the  cost  of 
two  broken  hearts.  The  contest  with  her- 
self had  been  a  severe  one,  and  several 
times  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  recalling 
the  messenger  who  had  taken  her  final  note 
of  farewell  across  to  "Greymere." 

^^For  myself  I  do  not  care,''  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  lay  on  her  little  white  bed, 
and  gazed  with  sweety,  solemn  eyes  at  her 
20T 


Poison  Flowers. 

mother's  portrait  on  the  wall  opposite.  ''I 
could  bear  anything  for  his  sake — shame, 
poverty/ reproach — anything,  but  not  the 
knowledge  that  I  had  dragged  him  down 
to  dishonor.  If  love  is  love,  real  love,  it 
will  make  me  strong  to  save  him  rather 
than  ruin  him  .  .  .  and  O,  God,  help  me 
to  be  strong.'' 

•I*  ^£*  ^Z*  ^it?  *Z*  •Z'  aZ* 

•Ji  •!»  "X*  •T*  •J*  •!»  •!* 

It  was  dusk  when  Van  Rensselaer  re- 
entered the  big,  stone  gateway  at  ^^Grey- 
mere."  The  silver  horn  of  the  young  moon 
glittered  behind  the  feathery  branches  of 
the  trees;  the  evening  breeze  from  the 
river  was  oppressively  sweet  with  the  fra- 
grance of  roses.  As  he  entered  the  house 
the  butler  gave  him  two  letters.  He  rec- 
ognized Dorothy's  with  a  smile  of  triumph- 
ant joy;  he  knew^  so  well  what  it  must  con- 
tain for  him.  The  other  note  was  from  his 
wife,  and  he  tore  it  open  hastily  with  a 
frown  of  scarcely  concealed  surprise.  It 
was  rarely  indeed  that  she  took  the  trouble 
to  recognize  his  existence  so  officially. 
208 


Poison  Flowers. 

Standing  beneath  the  dim  light  of  the 
Roman  lantern  in  the  hall,  he  read  what 
she  had  written  him.  It  was  brief  and  to 
the  point: 

Since  we  do  not  love  each  other,  I  have  left  you  for- 
ever. ELEANOR. 


OF 


209 


^^^ 


«rf  X 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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'    MAR  27  1948 
I     MAR    28   i848 

JUN  10  534^ 

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Af»R2l196794 

RECEIVE,!:^ 

APR    7 '67 -9  AN 

LOAN  DEPT 

LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


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